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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26737411">the second of our reign</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/o_honeybees/pseuds/o_honeybees'>o_honeybees</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Complicated Feelings of Betrayal and Loss, Earnest Political Speeches, Enemies With Benefits, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Outing, Pining while fucking, Political Campaigns, Recovery, Secret Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:08:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,784</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26737411</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/o_honeybees/pseuds/o_honeybees</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>It’s been two months. They don’t text, though Felix’s number is saved in Dimitri’s phone, and he sometimes wistfully stares at it. They don’t talk. This is the way they meet: by opportunity, by convenience, by … excuse. They meet at events, at functions, which Felix attends because it’s his job, and which Dimitri attends because he is looking to become elected to the highest government seat in Fódlan. This is the space between them. This is the inches between Felix’s hand and his own. This is every word they’ve ever spoken in anger. Yes, then: he’s missed Felix, his body and his voice and the strange ways he cares for people. He’s missed him every day for the past five years. </p>
</blockquote>Dimitri is running for office. Felix works for the Black Eagles campaign.<p>This wouldn't be an issue if they didn't keep sleeping with each other.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd &amp; Blue Lions Students, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd &amp; Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd &amp; Sylvain Jose Gautier &amp; Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Felix Hugo Fraldarius &amp; Sylvain Jose Gautier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>106</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the second of our reign</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fhirdiad is cold in the winter. </p><p>It is late as the train begins to slow, its heavy pounding rhythm lengthening to a leisurely beat. The windows, frosted-over on the edges, have long since darkened to black, and Felix’s reflection is limned in the vivid brightness of the carriage’s electric lamps: the faux-fur hood of his coat gives his face a slightly blurred look. It’s too warm inside, stuffy and hot. His gloved fingers curl and uncurl around the screen of his phone on the small, fold-out table. Beside him is his duffel bag, plump and well-stuffed with a change of clothes and his laptop: enough to carry around his life in, yet not so that it would encumber him, if he had to leave a place in a hurry. </p><p>He is coming home from Enbarr. </p><p>Home. It’s … strange, as a notion. A headache; the pressing sensation that something is missing; a loss, a mourning. Bitter coffee in shitty hotel rooms and the grounding weight of his bag over his shoulder are closer to signaling: home—in this long night of his life—than ever were Fhirdiad or Fraldarius. </p><p>That is almost a lie. Once, home was Annette’s little songs, Ashe’s trashy novels, Mercedes’ teatime sweets, even—yes—Dedue’s rare but undoubtedly excellent Duscur cooking. Once, home was Sylvain’s arm thrown over his shoulder, Ingrid’s sharp, acerbic comebacks. The lot of them were Garreg Mach kids, thrown together by circumstance and friendship, idealistic, unrealistic, burning each night at both ends, talking politics, talking relationships, talking crests lore and marriage expectations and what one owed, truly, to one’s elders. Long evenings in someone or other’s dorm room, crap pizza and worse beer and weed of questionable origin, piece by piece remaking Fódlan until they thought they could drink the future they wished to make, bubbly and sparkling, like champagne. </p><p>They wanted to change the world. </p><p>And Dimitri—brave, charming, princely Dimitri, Felix’s favourite friend turned hated bog person, with that smile that didn’t reach his eyes—was the one who was going to make it all happen. </p><p>Dimitri. </p><p>The train plunges brusquely into a tunnel, swallowing the windows into pitch-black. Felix blinks, his chin upon his hand. The screen of his phone lights up as it connects to the city wi-fi: push notifications for the Fhirdiad news and the local weather: cold and ice, short days and long nights. Emails—mostly junk. A message from the Black Eagles HQ; he hesitates a half-second before swiping it away, unread. </p><p>‘Fhirdiad Central Terminal,’ a frozen, automated voice announces. ‘Final stop. All passengers—’ Felix scoops up the hood of his coat, dragging it on over his turtleneck, retrieves his duffel bag, stuffs his phone down his pocket, and is standing at the swooshing doors before the train even shudders to a stop, making his way out while the other passengers are still juggling luggage, kids, passports, and pets. </p><p>Overhead, through an arched ceiling of glass and steel, the sky is black, starless. The station smells of heat and sweat and cheap coffee and stale croissants, and Felix elbows himself a path through a never-ending stream of commuters, determinedly ignoring the great blinking interfaces announcing more arrivals and more departures, the shouts and the laughter. His phone burns in his pocket. It’s a relief when he finally makes it outside, stepping out a set of great double doors onto a gently sloping staircase, and into the Fhirdiad night. </p><p>The cold is a shock to his system. He stops at the top of the staircase, breathing it in. Feels it burn in his lungs. </p><p>The Central Terminal stands squarely in the center of the city, and from here large avenues and thoroughfares branch off, star-like, connecting to the rest of Fhirdiad. Trams and cabs convene on the square. Lights, blinking on and off, echo each other in stuttering constellations. The air is thick with the smells of petrol and greasy street food. From here Fhirdiad expands, stretches, lazily, like a great big lion, and Felix has—</p><p>Missed it. It’s nonsensical—he hasn’t been away for long enough to miss it. Nor does he have a sentimental attachment to the city; he keeps a minuscule studio there for purposes best left unsaid, and spends his moons wandering the continent, far away from any … attachments … he may have to the Faerghus capital. Lately, work has taken from him his purpose, his sleep, his resolve to stop smoking, and any feeling he might once have had that he isn’t expendable.</p><p>He takes a tram home. Leaning against the metal railing, he laces his gloved fingers together and watches the darkened streets fly by. </p><p>His studio lies on the third floor of a shoddy building, just off a busy well-lit boulevard, in a neighbourhood that was once popular and now—isn’t, so much. It’s small; a narrow kitchen in succession with a narrow bedroom; a futon on the floor, a large desk that was once Glenn’s, an old TV. Felix shoulders past the sticking smoked-glass door and drops his duffel on the floor, takes off his coat. Drops his keys in the bowl. Bites his gloves off, one after the other, and turns the TV on. Through the window, the neon sign of a nearby 24/7 shop stains the walls in vicious, changing oranges and blues. </p><p>He half-ignores and half-listens to the tail end of a reality show, and more of this accursed weather, while he unearths a frozen dinner from the depths of the freezer. The microwave is purring, and he’s struggling with the espresso maker, when the news comes on. </p><p>
  <em> ‘... in the morning. Edelgard von Hresvelg has arrived in Fhirdiad this afternoon, smiling and pleased, evidently secure in the knowledge that the two latest continent-wide polls give her a three-point lead over her two main rivals, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd and Claude von Riegan—‘ </em>
</p><p>Felix sticks his fingers in a fold-out bit of the espresso machine. And curses, manfully.</p><p>‘<em>… this election season has been awash with a number of surprising twists and turns, leaving the public quite unable to determine which of the three contenders they hope will come out on top. von Hresvelg’s shocking intention to abolish the crests system as we know it if she comes to power has taken a life of its own on social media … ’ </em></p><p>The microwave beeps. Felix blisters his bruised fingers on a bit of aluminum foil. </p><p>‘.<em>.. only overshadowed by the unexpected revelation that she and Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd are step-siblings, raised in separate households—’ </em></p><p>Fishing a fork out of a drawer, Felix sets down his dinner on the small square table that takes up the majority of the space in his kitchen.</p><p>‘<em>… von Riegan has remained largely unscathed by rumor, preferring to dedicate his time in the spotlight to discussions of commerce with Almyra and fierce questioning of the strict border exemptions with Brigid …'</em></p><p>Felix’s phone beeps, again. He ignores it in favour of stuffing his face with red pesto pasta.</p><p>‘<em>... all three contesters will cross paths at the Fhirdiad Charitable Institute for Vulnerable Orphans, due to hold its annual fundraiser tomorrow night. Long one of Blaiddyd’s personal pet projects, the Charitable Institute’s given goal is to raise awareness toward the shocking mistreatment and abandonment suffered by the youth …’ </em></p><p>The TV screen switches from a view of last year’s fundraiser to a wide shot of Dimitri exiting a car, blinking at sudden, bright camera flashes, and giving them a soft grin in return. Felix’s fork halts in mid-air. </p><p>It’s a recent take, perhaps a day old, or two: Felix can tell, as easily as he can tell that Dimitri is uneasy under the assault of cameras and journalists. He’s watched most of Dimitri’s recent public appearances—the rallies and the functions and the premieres—and this is ... new. Dimitri: in a charcoal suit that curves beautifully over his broad chest and cinches down at the waist, his hair swept back from his brow and falling onto his shoulders in gentle waves. His expression is friendly, but guarded; he shakes someone’s hand, then someone else’s, mouthing hellos. Behind him, Dedue looms. </p><p>It’s a good look on him. Dimitri always looks good, these days: he is nothing like the wreck of a man he once was—hair matted to his skull, cheeks sunken in and lips bitten raw, pacing and raving like an animal in a cage. He’s bulked up considerably since their Academy days, and his missing eye gives him an inscrutable, magical air. His smiles look genuine, though they are, admittedly, careful, and circumspect. Dimitri’s childhood timidity has melted, after all is said and done, into a charming sort of reserve. </p><p>Felix sometimes thinks he is the only one who remembers him as he was, five years ago. The Blue Lions have made a point of forgetting. But it was Felix who took the brunt of it—Felix who watched over him during his nighttime episodes, when Dimitri was unable to do anything but harangue the dead and endlessly twist his hands together till they bled; Felix who held him down when Dimitri was little more than a furious animal, all instinct and power and pain; Felix who snarled in his face when Dimitri didn’t recognize him and didn’t much care. Felix who forced him to eat, to sleep, when Dimitri would have destroyed himself with frantic self-hatred. Felix who hated and loved him in equal measure. Who stayed. </p><p>Until he didn’t. </p><p>Onscreen, Dimitri turns and flashes a smile at the camera, charming and bright and undeservedly real. </p><p>Felix grits his teeth and turns the TV off. </p><p>He’s finished dinner and opened the window, the night air seeping in, when his phone beeps again; this time, he cannot escape the stab of guilt that strikes him, and, picking it up, he opens the message with a sweep of his thumb. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em> Come to the fundraiser tomorrow. Your assistance will be invaluable. E. </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Felix look at the phone’s screen until it turns dark. Then, sighing, he lights his cigarette, cupping his hands around the flame before he shakes the match out. The electric lamp in his kitchen warms everything through a golden glow, and the cigarette smoke curls into his lungs, acrid yet sweet. It’s very late now, his hunger satisfied and purring, and the journey from Enbarr has been a long one. Yet, somehow, sleep eludes him. He smokes, gently, eyes half-closed, and thinks of the past, and tells himself that he regrets nothing. </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>‘They <em> will </em> ask about your commitment to your voters. You’ve been pretty quiet this past couple of days—I know, I know, you needed the rest—but this is your big return, now that Edelgard has arrived on the scene—’</p><p>‘I know, Sylvain.’</p><p>‘You’re keen to continue the work, and impatient to meet your opponents in your first face-to-face debate three days from now—’</p><p>‘I know, Sylvain.’</p><p>‘No, not that tie. The cobalt one. Brings out the color of your eye.’ Sylvain plucks the offending scrap of material from Dimitri’s fingers, replaces it with a mostly indistinguishable second blue tie, and sets his hands down heavily on his shoulders. ‘You gonna be okay?’</p><p>‘I’ll be fine,’ says Dimitri, looping the fabric around his neck. Sylvain watches him like a hawk until the knot is tied, and then grins, evidently satisfied. </p><p>‘You look damn good. If I do say so myself.’</p><p>‘Thank you,’ Dimitri says dryly. ‘Given that you chose the suit, the shirt, the shoes …’ </p><p>‘I have excellent taste.’</p><p>‘That you do.’</p><p>Dimitri steals another glance into the full-length mirror. The navy striped suit fits him like a glove, it’s true, and the white pocket square adds a fancy touch that is somewhat foreign to his personality. He adjusts his watch, rather self-consciously. Though he has existed in political circles more or less from birth, first as a babe trailing his father in the corridors of endless ministries, then as an intern running to make coffee and copies, and then as a young man eager to avenge the ghosts of his past, he has never liked nor become accustomed to the trappings of frontroom fundraising. He has worn more suits in the past two years than most men wear in a lifetime of office work, and still the heavy jackets and starched shirts feel unfamiliar on his skin. Sylvain, who is equally at ease in a high-brow suit and a pair of ratty jeans, bullies him into visiting the tailor every two months; sometimes Mercedes joins in, and the two of them cheerfully roast Dimitri’s despicable sense of fashion, drinking sophisticated little black coffees and gorging themselves on the pastries Mercedes inevitably brings around. Dimitri must admit they have outdone themselves, this time. In this vest his shoulders are broad and his waist well-defined, his cufflinks are little silver lances, and the pants are most elegantly cut. </p><p>‘Remember,’ Sylvain says, as they make their way to the door: ‘Be charming, be friendly, <em> smile. </em>You’re thanking the patrons for coming tonight, this is your pet cause … ’</p><p>‘I hardly need the reminder of that,’ Dimitri laughs, and opens the door, on Annette, resplendent in a cream dress that offsets her auburn curls. ‘Hi?’</p><p>‘Hi!’ she says cheerfully. <em> ‘Here’s </em> the schedule for tonight. Arrivals are coming in <em> en masse </em> , it’s <em> such </em> a crowd,’ she adds, trotting by his side to catch up with his long stride. ‘So we’re going to introduce you through the back door, it’ll look like you’ve been in the ballroom for a while. You’re slated to talk to the press for five minutes—wave, grin, a few words about the Charitable Institute—and then schmoozing, schmoozing, schmoozing. Claude made it in a few minutes ago with his retinue. Edelgard has yet to arrive … ’</p><p>‘She’ll make her entrance,’ Dimitri says, with the pang of regret and bitterness he habitually feels when he thinks of Edelgard. </p><p>‘Right—and <em> then </em> your speech.’</p><p>‘Sure.’ </p><p>‘Dedue’s overlooking the kitchens. The appetizers are a success; nobody cares that they’re Duscur cuisine, they think it’s very <em> in </em> to eat the food of the underprivileged. I think this will be the Charitable Institute’s most profitable fundraiser yet,’ she continues, with deep satisfaction: though the Institute <em> is </em> one of Dimitri’s favorite causes, Annette has been overlooking fundraising efforts for his campaign for a year, and she sees tonight’s event as an opportunity for endowments. ‘Lots of big donors coming in.’</p><p>‘What they <em> want </em> is to see you square off with Claude and Edelgard,’ Sylvain puts in, on Dimitri’s other side. </p><p>‘If it gets them to donate,’ says Dimitri serenely, straightening his cuffs, ‘we’ll be sure to give them what they want,’ and Sylvain laughs, clasping his shoulder in warm, undisguised affection. The elevator lurches underneath their feet, and as he lifts his head to watch the numbers descend on the interface, a sliver of excitement goes down Dimitri’s nape. This moment is the culmination of years of effort on the part of his campaign, the denouement of a long and arduous story, and—if he is lucky, if their work pays off, if the voters decide to throw their weight behind him—the beginning of another. Whatever happens on election night, he knows their party has gained sufficient clout to influence Fódlan politics for a decade to come. More. </p><p>If he wins two weeks from now, he has every intention of asking Edelgard and Claude to work alongside him in bringing the continent together. Fódlan is a huge federation, an uneasy coalition of nations—Adrestia, Faerghus, and the Leicester Alliance, once territories in their own right, now impossibly brought together by the marching approach of the future, by every small change that needs be done if the next generation is to find happiness and prosperity and community. It’s harsh, endless, grunt work, and Dimitri does not relish it; but he feels opportunity and duty equally grounding in his heart. He has much to atone for. If he is to spend the rest of his life working for the betterment of his nation, so be it. </p><p>Ingrid is pacing in the corridor outside the elevators, dressed in a rather magnificent green pantsuit and looking uncharacteristically agitated. </p><p>‘Ingrid,’ Dimitri says. ‘You look—’</p><p>‘Edelgard arrived four minutes ago,’ she interrupts, unprompted, grim, ‘with her faithful shadow.’</p><p>Dimitri tilts his head; blinks. von Vestra’s presence at Edelgard’s side is neither surprising nor gratuitous: he has sent them invitations himself. And that alone does not suffice to explain Ingrid’s anguish. </p><p>But Ingrid adds, biting each word off, ‘Felix is here.’</p><p>At Dimitri’s side, Sylvain goes deathly still. </p><p>‘Felix?’ Annette echoes, her voice climbing. ‘Tonight? <em> Here</em>?’</p><p>Ingrid sets her teeth, eyes shadowed. ‘I saw him in the ballroom ten minutes ago.’</p><p>Sylvain lets out a bark of laughter. ‘She’s gotta be scared of the <em> company,</em> if she’s bringing two of her lapdogs to a routine fundraiser.’</p><p>‘Peace, Sylvain,’ Dimitri soothes, setting one calming hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Felix has every right to be here tonight. It is no time for political dissent or personal strife. The evening must be consecrated to its purpose: raising the necessary funds for the Institute. Annette—’ She hums. ‘—if you should happen to encounter Felix in the ballroom tonight, do, please, offer him a glass of champagne; with my personal compliments.’</p><p>Her eyes soften, and her cheeks get rosier. Annette is the only one of the Blue Lions to whom Felix still speaks on a regular basis: their friendship is a notoriously sweet little thing, made of small songs and overprotectiveness, though she keeps mention of it quiet, uncompromising. Felix is, to this day, years after he left, a point of contention in Blue Lions HQ. Sylvain refuses even to be in the same room as he. Ingrid gets a terrible look on her face when he is mentioned, which for months plagued Dimitri till he realized the source of its familiarity: it is the same look she used to have whenever someone brought up Glenn in conversation. Even Ashe, sweet-natured Ashe, is angry: his youthful admiration for Felix’s tempered courage and fearlessness has soured into genuine resentment. It is, perhaps, not surprising that Mercedes should be advocating reconciliation and generosity when the subject gets taken up; it is rather more of a shock that Dedue agrees with her. Dedue, who was never Felix’s friend, has been close at hand to see how deeply his defection has impacted Dimitri. He, more than any of them, has been private to those sleepless nights and those muttered ramblings, those horrible hours in the dark of Dimitri’s soul, when Felix’s disappearance from his life and from his affections seemed to spell out the end of all things. Yet he, too, is wishful of making things even. </p><p>‘It matters not,’ says Dimitri, and means: <em> it ought not to matter</em>. </p><p>Together they step through the doors into the gloriously-lit, brilliantly-appointed ballroom, to the sound of a thousand voices. </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dimitri shakes more hands and smiles more smiles than he can recall doing in the span of a single evening. The night grows long, and he sips gingerly at a flute of champagne, which Sylvain has at some point pushed into his hand. He mingles. Donors and patrons command his attention. He is by turns bashful, compelling, decisive, agreeable. If the corners of his lips tilt up on automatic, and if a fatigue headache begins to haunt the back of his mind, no one needs know. </p><p>By accident, chance, or design, he, Edelgard and Claude are brought together in the center of the ballroom, twists and turns in the crowd making the meeting inevitable. They look almost happy to see him. </p><p>‘This <em> is </em>a party, Your Highness,’ says Claude. His grin is just a touch too wide. </p><p>‘Please don’t call me that,’ Dimitri groans. The old nickname—<em>the Blaiddyd are a family of princes, the children of Loog—</em>has never felt so unearned. ‘I am pleased that you could both come. To show our unity in time of need will be our strength.’</p><p>‘It is certainly right for us all to show good will,’ Edelgard agrees, her voice as cool as always, ‘three days before the debate. That is why the date of the fundraiser was moved up, isn’t it?’</p><p>Claude hums under his breath. Dimitri does his best not to flush.</p><p>Cameras flash—the three heirs of Fódlan politics, making polite small talk and smiling in common courtesy—and Dimitri does not doubt their encounter will be front page news in every newspaper around the continent, come the morning. They are under close scrutiny. Around them are the old men who for decades have ruled Fódlan: Rowe, Edmund, Arundel. These are the men who will become irrelevant in years to come, and who know they can do nothing to prevent it. Edelgard’s continued detachment from the Church, Dimitri’s social welfare programs, Claude’s international diplomacy—they will change the landscape of the continent, for better or for worse. Whoever wins the election will carry on their shoulders the future of millions of men and women. All three of them have been raised from infancy to bear that burden. </p><p>There is no one else in the world who can understand that part of Dimitri. One day, it may prove his downfall. </p><p>They part with a handshake and a nod. Dimitri finds himself drifting towards the buffet, setting down his champagne flute with a sigh, shoulders lowering. The weight of the cameras ebbs away. The celebrity roster has gathered here tonight: opera songstresses and champion horseriders and heirs to immense industrial and financial dynasties, each dressed more beautifully than the last, and well-used to social mingling, highbrow partying, and enemy fraternization—in a way that he isn’t, any longer. </p><p>He can’t remember a time, in the past decade, when smiling has come easily to him. The Tragedy has taken that loftiness from him, as it has taken so much else. </p><p>No one sees, when he slips away to a terrace separated from the ballroom by a wide promenade. </p><p>It’s cold out. The constellations of the plaza glitter and dance, and circling round the massive monument to Loog that stands regally in its center, dark cars are waiting at stoplights, blinking in the soft night. Dimitri walks slowly to the balcony, setting his hands down on the broad, cool stone. The stinging air burns on his heated cheeks; his lungs expand, painfully. For the first time since Sylvain came into his hotel room earlier this evening, bearing a lint brush and a copy of his speech, Dimitri finds it in himself to breathe. </p><p>The windows behind him glide open. Then shut. </p><p>‘Are you bailing on your own party, boar?’ </p><p>Dimitri smiles, ducking his head.  </p><p>‘The event is a fundraising for the Charitable Institute for Vulnerable Orphans,’ he points out, without turning around. The lights of the plaza gleam on wet pavement. ‘I had no hand in its organizing.’</p><p>‘Which is why the <em> petits-fours </em> are Duscur cuisine,’ says Felix, ‘and Mercedes is dancing with the biggest political donor north of the Adrestian border.’ He comes closer slowly, giving Dimitri the chance to back away. Dimitri doesn’t. Dimitri makes space for him. </p><p>Felix’s hair is longer than it was two months ago. His eyes are dark, the color of smoke and whiskey. He leans his elbows on the balustrade next to Dimitri, his gaze distant, unreadable. Felix was never made for suits—his chosen style has always been jeans he can easily move in, sleeveless turtlenecks, and more straps and buckles than are surely appropriate for a grown man—but nevertheless he looks quite well tonight. His long legs are made longer by the cut of his pants. </p><p>Goddess, Dimitri has missed him. </p><p>It’s been two months. They don’t text, though Felix’s number is saved in Dimitri’s phone, and he sometimes wistfully stares at it. They don’t talk. This is the way they meet: by opportunity, by convenience, by … excuse. They meet at events, at functions, which Felix attends because it’s his job, and which Dimitri attends because he is looking to become elected to the highest government seat in Fódlan. This is the space between them. This is the inches between Felix’s hand and his own. This is every word they’ve ever spoken in anger. Yes, then: he’s missed Felix, his body and his voice and the strange ways he cares for people. He’s missed him every day for the past five years. </p><p>Longer, perhaps. </p><p>Dimitri moves his hand. His littlest finger touches Felix’s. </p><p>Felix breathes in, leans in. He’s watching the plaza, the cars purring and the people passing, long lashes shielding his eyes, shadowing the lights reflected in them. </p><p>Dimitri says: ‘Do you want to get out of here?’</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dimitri shoves him against the hotel room door and kisses him as soon as they are inside. The door slams behind Felix’s back, and he holds back a noise of discontent as Dimitri’s <em> absurdly </em> big body presses fully against his, shoulder to thigh. Dimitri’s mouth is hot, scalding, and moves against Felix’s mouth with slick and undeniable want. His fingers gingerly touch Felix’s cheek, touch his jaw. They slip into his hair, holding his head firm, his palms cupped to the back of his skull. Felix groans, a swallowed-up sound in his throat, and his hands fall to Dimitri’s chest, testing the firmness of his muscles, the trembling, quivering strength in his abdomen beneath that fine shirt. Their tongues meld. As Felix yanks him closer, grasping, pulling, already dragging his shirt tails out of his pants, Dimitri says, ‘Felix—’</p><p>‘Shut up,’ Felix mutters, against his lips. ‘Shut up, come on.’</p><p>Dimitri’s mouth curves. He presses it, open, against Felix’s jaw, nuzzling at his skin, and sighing, ‘You, too,’ and his large hands are on Felix’s chest, stroking, slowly pushing his jacket out of the way. Felix shrugs it off. It falls at their feet, and Felix cares little that it gets trampled. ‘Oh, Felix,’ Dimitri sighs, in his ear. </p><p>Felix refuses to listen. Refuses, absolutely, mulishly, to consider the sensation of dizzying height that rises within him when Dimitri says his name—so. When Dimitri is near. When Dimitri. </p><p>‘Let me,’ Dimitri says, and with burning mouth he kisses a trail down his neck, undoing button after button. He parts his shirt and strokes his hand down Felix’s throat in a way that in any other man would have been undoubtedly threatening: his broad palm, his strong fingers, pressing down against the soft sensitive skin there, feeling Felix’s swallow, the tremble of his breath. Felix’s lashes flicker, drift shut. He feels dazed, pushed outside the boundaries of his own body, as though desire were a tangible and palpable thing, that melted and molded itself to their bodies, made every gesture, every move, slow, as though pushing through molasses. Dimitri’s tongue is hot and wet against his throat. And his hand is moving down, down …</p><p>Felix masters himself. Makes for Dimitri’s belt, and hears with satisfaction the little moan that escapes Dimitri’s lips when he puts his hand on his dick. He strokes him through his trousers, a little clumsy but <em> good</em>, and Dimitri’s hips tilt into his grip, stuttering, stumbling forward, pushing him harder against the door. </p><p>‘Fuck me,’ Felix growls, mustering what severity he can. </p><p>‘Oh,’ Dimitri says, ‘Felix,’ and his eyes are wide and pale as moons, ‘<em>yes</em>,’ sounding surprised, sounding astonished, as though they have not done this a dozen times before: met in secret, in hotel rooms and quiet corners, exchanging furtive favors with hands and mouths and—</p><p>It makes a sick sort of sense that Dimitri should want him like this. He is the heir of the Blaiddyd family, the prince of Faerghus politics, the future of Fódlan. Felix does not fool himself into thinking this is a love affair. It’s lust, it’s greed, it’s sensuality; that’s all. Dimitri’s body is unquestionably a work of art, and Felix is strong and active. They each of them could do worse. Felix <em> has </em> done worse. </p><p>Belt undone, Felix wraps his fingers around the head of Dimitri’s cock, smearing with his thumb the slickness he finds at the sensitive slit. Dimitri blinks, rapidly, a high flush on his cheekbones. His hair falls over his eye, slips into his mouth. He bites his full lower lip, makes it red and shiny. Felix strokes him, twice, slow, from root to tip. </p><p>‘O-oh—’ Dimitri’s breath stumbles out of him. His dick twitches palpably in Felix’s open palm.</p><p>‘Put it in me,’ Felix says, blunt.</p><p>He watches Dimitri swallow, the long bob of his neck. His lips ghost against Felix’s lips, open and soft and a little wet, a not-kiss. It’s unbelievably good. ‘Do you have—'</p><p>‘Back pocket.’</p><p>Dimitri fishes out the condom with extra care, and barely gropes Felix’s ass at all. Felix mourns it, somehow. Dimitri’s great care is at once touching and frustrating. </p><p>Dimitri bites down on the condom wrapper and then—wretchedly, absurdly—goes to his knees. It’s worse than arousing, the sight of him looking up, his eye darkened with lust, his hair soft-looking and wheat-gold. A single lamp is on, lining Dimitri’s shoulders with softened light, and throwing the rest of him into perfect shadow. But his hands are cautious on Felix’s thighs as he slowly pulls down his pants and boxers, and bares him to his curious gaze. Exposed, Felix is half-hard, cockhead just peeking out of the foreskin, and when Dimitri wraps his hand around him and nuzzles against him, he gets harder. Dimitri’s fingers are calloused, a little rough against silken, tender skin.</p><p>Dimitri makes him naked with the greatest tenderness. Then stands, still dressed. It’s obscene. His cock pulled out, flushed and red and dripping at the tip, and the rest of him, still perfectly put together—it’s <em> obscene</em>. Felix wants him, obscenely. </p><p>‘How—’</p><p>‘Like this. Like <em> this, </em> fuck—’</p><p>‘Should I,’ Dimitri says, soft. </p><p>‘Don’t need it.’ Felix’s voice is hoarse. ‘Just take me.’</p><p>Dimitri pushes him back gently against the door, all that deep strength collared, <em> restrained—</em>fuck, fuck—and Felix slings both of his legs around his narrow waist, secure in the knowledge that Dimitri will hold him up, caring not a bit if it lands him on his ass, mindful only of the need that radiates from the very deepest core of him, that pulses in his cock and makes weak precome dribble out the tip. Dimitri wraps an arm underneath him and lifts him, easy—he’s so <em> strong </em> , fuck, Felix is going <em> insane </em> with the need of him, has always been insane with the need of him—until he presses up against Felix’s ass, his dick impossibly fat from this angle; and Dimitri moans, <em> ‘Oh </em>, yes—’ and rocks up his hips, already dazed, gazing at Felix as though he can’t quite believe what he sees, as though the vision of him with his thighs splayed either side of his waist and his cock pointing up between their bodies is simply too good to be true. </p><p>Something inside Felix throbs. Heat diffuses through his body, until he thinks he might shine from it. </p><p>A crinkle of foil as Dimitri slips on the condom, growling only a little with the feel of it. Felix leans his head against the door, breathing in, thinking of the picture they must make: his clothes strewn around them, his body naked in the semi-light, and held open; and Dimitri still fully dressed, those tailored pants riding low on his ass, his thighs muscled and firmly planted underneath Felix. They barely got in the door before they jumped each other. </p><p>Dimitri’s fingers brush against his opening, and Felix jolts. It’s nothing yet—a bare touch, fingertips dipping in ever so slightly; but it knocks the breath out of Felix nonetheless, and he arches his back, twisting one arm round Dimitri’s neck. He’s panting, soft, as Dimitri explores him, stretches him only just barely open—nothing, nothing, this is nothing next to the burn that will come, the stretch and the impossible hardness of his length, and Felix longs for it, fucking aches for it, feels desire pooling in his stomach like molten gold—while the fingers of his other hand stroke up and down the small of Felix’s back, in the sliver of space between his sweaty skin and the door. A bare caress. So intimate it becomes absurd. </p><p>‘Fuck me,’ Felix manages, his voice raspy. </p><p>‘Shh,’ says Dimitri, soothing, and parts Felix’s cheeks with both thumbs, the flat of his fingers guiding just the tip of his cock inside. </p><p>Felix moans outright at that blunt pressure, at the stretched tightness of that first, delirious entry. No matter how many times he takes Dimitri, he is always staggered by that incredible girth, by how much it opens him up when Dimitri forces him down onto his cock. Dimitri stops there, with only the head inside him, rocking his hips against his ass until Felix is almost whining from the lack of stimulation. He braces himself on Dimitri’s shoulders, the muscles of his thighs burning where they press against Dimitri’s sides, and groans in protest when Dimitri says, ‘No, no,’ and keeps him, easily, maddeningly, into place. His thumb draws a tight little circle around the stretched ring of Felix’s opening. </p><p>‘Ahh—’ He pants, his fingers clenching on Dimitri’s shoulders, on that <em> fucking </em> gorgeous blue shirt. ‘ <em> Damn you</em>—gimme more—’</p><p>‘Patience,’ Dimitri murmurs. He tilts his hips, pushing in another impossibly sensitive inch, and then dragging back out just as slowly. Felix’s breathing is ragged, torn. He tries to fuck himself down, to take more of that staggering length, to push it <em> in </em>, and Dimitri smiles and murmurs, nonsensically—‘so sweet, ah, Felix, so tight—’</p><p>‘Just fuck me,’ Felix gasps. ‘Ah, ah—fuck—’</p><p>‘Shh,’ Dimitri says, again, nuzzling against his temple. ‘You’re doing so good.’</p><p>‘Don’t patronize me, boar,’ he snaps, and tightens his ankles at the small of Dimitri’s back, tightens his grip on Dimitri’s hair, pulling his hair forcibly back. In the half-light, Dimitri grins. </p><p>‘Very well.’ And he frames his hand on Felix’s hip and pulls him down onto his cock. </p><p>Felix’s howl is swallowed up in Dimitri’s hot mouth. That swollen scalding cock slides up inside his ass, and Felix’s fingers clench convulsively down around Dimitri’s throat, as Dimitri, without pause, without mercy, drags his thigh further up against his chest and pushes every thick inch of his length into Felix’s stretched-tight hole. He doesn’t stop until he is seated deep inside, swallowed to the root, his balls flush against Felix’s ass. Felix chokes back a cry and bears down, pulling him in, clenching down around him and feeling him pulse, deep inside. ‘Ah—<em>ah—’ </em>He’s so impossibly deep, he’s so impossibly full—it’s so good, it’s too good; he’s never felt anything like Dimitri’s cock, has never fucked anyone like he fucks Dimitri, has never been filled as good as Dimitri fills him. He can scarcely answer Dimitri’s kisses: his mouth is slack, his breaths coming in uneven little pants. </p><p>Dimitri shudders against him, and Felix feels every shift of it, deep inside. Dimitri trails his lips over his shoulders and the salty hollow of his throat, smart bites, small kisses, and moves infinitesimally, driving his length out and then back in a fraction of an inch and shocking the air clean out of Felix’s lungs. </p><p>‘Ah, ahh—fuck, boar—’</p><p>‘Even now,’ Dimitri says, mournfully. Felix whimpers and grinds his hips down, catching his fingers in Dimitri’s hair, feeling himself clench intermittently, impulsively, down around Dimitri’s cock. The stretch is impossible. He feels split open, pushed beyond the limits of what is reasonable or plausible. ‘Even now, Felix?’ </p><p>Shivering, Felix brushes his thumbs over Dimitri’s cheekbones, a mere caress that feels like baring his soul. Dimitri stares at him, and then he nudges their mouths together, open and wet and soft, even as his hips pick up speed, rocking up in short, staccato little bursts that move Felix up against the wall, driving his legs tighter against his chest. </p><p>It doesn’t take long for Felix to be pushed to his limits, as Dimitri’s cock drags in and out of him, the slide of it a long, delirious thing, interminable strokes from root up to tip <em> down </em> to root again. Dimitri buries himself inside of him again and again, says his name, gasps sweet little gasps that mean nothing and everything, all at once. Pleasure sparks up and down Felix’s spine, making him arch in Dimitri’s grasp, shocking him on every thrust. Dimitri’s fingers make bruises on his thighs, his hips. His thighs slap against Felix’s ass, rhythmically, obscenely. The sounds their bodies make are wet and lewd. </p><p>‘Ahn—ah—oh Sothis,’ Felix rasps, ‘oh, oh, fuck, <em> don’t stop—’ </em> before he clamps <em> down </em> around Dimitri’s length and comes hard and long, with nothing but the friction of Dimitri’s perfect stupid shirt against his dick to make him reach his peak, which would be embarrassing if he weren’t overcome with bliss, made blind and deaf and senseless with it, spurting long ropes of pearly white come all over Dimitri’s stomach. Dimitri moans, full and overwhelmed, and fucks him through it, fucks him into the door in long, violent thrusts that drive Felix mad with bliss and overstimulation. </p><p>‘Ahh … ahh … ‘ His breathing is harsh. His arms are around Dimitri’s neck, and he’s abandoned himself, he realizes: he’s entrusted his full weight to Dimitri, and knows, better than he knows anything in this world, that he won’t let him fall. </p><p>‘Felix,’ Dimitri says, brushing a kiss to his temple, ‘Felix … ‘</p><p>He slows his thrusts, until he is only holding him up, pressing him against the door. Felix’s legs are shaking, and he forces his toes to uncurl. ‘What,’ he says, still trembling with aftershocks, and with a pettishness he only half feels. ‘Are you already done?’</p><p>Dimitri’s cock, still hard as iron inside Felix, makes it quite obvious that he isn’t. Dimitri’s stamina is as indocile as his irrefutable strength. Some nights, it takes three or four thorough fucks to drive this live energy out of him. </p><p>‘I want you in a bed,’ Dimitri admits, small. </p><p>Felix closes his eyes. Opens them again. ‘Take me to one, then,’ he rasps, and only yelps a little when Dimitri wraps both of his arms around him and lifts him bodily off the door. </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Hours later, Felix slings his legs over the side of the bed and pushes off Dimitri’s warm side. Dimitri stirs, lifting one hand to Felix’s bare back. The light of the corridor limns Felix’s skin in gold; yet his lovely angular face is in shadow. </p><p>‘I’m leaving,’ Felix says, without looking back. </p><p>Dimitri sighs, pushing himself up on one elbow. He sets his lips to Felix’s shoulder; trails his fingertips down his spine.</p><p>‘Don’t distract me,’ Felix warns. </p><p>‘I wouldn’t,’ Dimitri smiles. He parts his lips, tastes the salt off Felix’s skin. ‘Are you sure … ’</p><p>‘I’ve work to do.’</p><p>Dimitri nods, closing his eye. Felix is warm from their efforts, skin so supple and soft. There is something to Felix after sex, when he is still pliant and willing and yielding, as though anything might happen, as though he might—give in to tenderness, inexplicably. And even now he tilts his head, baring his throat to Dimitri’s attentions. He turns enough to catch Dimitri’s mouth with his own, teeth scraping gently against his lower lip. </p><p>Then he pulls away. </p><p>Dimitri watches as he gathers his clothes, pulls on his trousers—a little rumpled from Dimitri’s hands—and tucks in his white shirt. He’s long-limbed and well-made, the muscles of his arms flexing through the thin fabric. His hair is loose over his shoulders; he gathers it in one hand, pulling it up in a sloppy bun, and Dimitri feels a moment of grief that he didn’t get to touch it more. </p><p>He stands. Felix’s eyes widen a little at the sight of him—naked, for once unashamed of his sheer size—but he doesn’t protest when Dimitri puts his hands on his hips and leans down to kiss him. Their lips smack together with a wet sound, then part, slickly. Felix sighs.</p><p><em> I miss you</em>, Dimitri does not say, drawing one thumb down Felix’s cheek. <em> Every day</em>.</p><p>Felix’s eyes tighten. He pulls himself away, escaping Dimitri’s grasp, and bends to retrieve his jacket off the ground. They have scraped paint off the door with the force of their earlier exertions, Dimitri notes, with a flush. Felix’s back must be sore. Felix’s <em> muscles </em> must be sore. His thighs …</p><p>‘Will I see you at the debate?’ he asks, hastily, to stave off the sudden surge of desire that rises inside him at the thought of Felix’s long, strong legs. </p><p>‘Maybe,’ says Felix, tight. ‘Edelgard—’ He shrugs. Doesn’t meet Dimitri’s eyes. ‘Are <em> you </em> ready for it?’</p><p>Dimitri musters a smile. ‘You know I can’t tell you that. Professional discretion?’</p><p>‘Can’t collude with the enemy,’ says Felix. </p><p>‘I think it’s a little too late for that,’ Dimitri says, and Felix scoffs.</p><p>He lifts one hand. Hesitates, in mid-air. Then his fingers are on Dimitri’s mouth, pressing down just enough that Dimitri can only feel them. ‘Boar,’ he says, but soft, and in the word that was once an insult Dimitri now hears unutterable sadness. </p><p>Dimitri leans into that embrace, kisses his fingers. Kisses his palm, one hand on Felix’s hand. Kisses his fine-boned wrist, till Felix shivers and tugs it away. </p><p>‘Be well,’ Dimitri says, solemnly, and Felix says, ‘Sure. Yeah.’ And leaves. </p><p>He leaves Dimitri naked in his forlorn hotel room. The door shuts behind him. </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>‘Are you well?’</p><p>Dimitri startles and nearly knocks his head against the car door. At the wheel, Deduce looks ahead, navigating them through the nighttime streets with the ease of years driving in Fhirdiad. But his voice is gentle despite its usual impassiveness, and his concern is real. If it didn’t embarrass them both beyond reason, Dimitri would publicly thank the Saints for Dedue every chance he got. </p><p>‘Quite well,’ he manages, adjusting his seat belt with some self-consciousness. ‘Do I seem—’</p><p>‘Distracted.’</p><p>‘Ah. My apologies.’</p><p>‘None necessary,’ Deduce says, smoothly slowing down at a stoplight. The broad avenue around them stretches out under a darkened, rainy sky, crowded with passers-by cloaked in heavy coats. Umbrellas bob up and down. The drizzle obscures the car’s windows, blurring the lights into beclouded reds and golds, casting strange stained glass shadows over the dashboard and Dedue’s strong, scarred hands. ‘You are heading for your biggest debate this election season. It is quite natural to be nervous.’</p><p>Dimitri smiles, rueful. ‘The way you phrase it, my friend.’</p><p>‘I am merely stating the facts. You have been preparing for this moment for a long time.’</p><p>‘That is true.’ He sighs, leaning his head against the window. ‘And yet, no matter how long I prepare, I find I am always vulnerable to outside attacks. The Black Eagles have been relentless in their offensive these last few days. They are ahead of us in the polls … ’</p><p>‘Polls that overwhelmingly and almost independently surveyed Adrestia,’ Deduce observes, gently moving them forward. ‘Faerghus voters stand behind you.’</p><p>‘Not all of them,’ Dimitri says softly. He is uncomfortably aware that to many of his own party he is merely Lambert the Second, his father’s spit and image; that many if not most of them expect him to address only the issues his progenitor addressed. But such is not Dimitri’s ambition. He has a vision for the future of Fódlan that does not stop at social welfare programs. He dreams of uniting the continent around a common cause. </p><p>‘Perhaps—’ Dedue pauses, then continues: ‘Perhaps it would be best if you did not speak of Duscur tonight.’</p><p>Dimitri stares at him. ‘The unfair discrimination suffered by your people is a key component of my arguments, Dedue.’</p><p>‘Nevertheless,’ Dedue persists, ‘there are many who will use this, and only this, as their takeaway from the evening. I would not wish your chances to be affected by a sentimental … attachment to my personal purpose.’</p><p>‘Yet it is mine, also,’ Dimitri says, warming to his subject; ‘and is it not my duty, as Lambert’s son, to do away with the rampant prejudices that surround his death? Duscur was not at fault in the Tragedy, and yet many still place blame, unfairly, uncouthly, with your people, Dedue. You yourself have endured injustice and intolerance beyond what I can imagine. I must—I find that I must—right that wrong once and for all.’</p><p>‘You will. I am certain of it.’</p><p>‘Then—’</p><p>‘But you may do so later, when you have established a clear majority and are supported by a government of your peers.’</p><p>‘I will not,’ says Dimitri, definitively. ‘I refuse to compromise my politics—my <em> beliefs </em>—now, so close to the election. I shall be elected on the basis of what I keep faith in; or not at all.’</p><p>Dedue is silent. He is a mindful driver, slow and talented, and Dimitri feels wholly safe, here in this car with him, here where Dedue is his constant, his closest friend. </p><p>‘Enough sacrifices,’ he says. ‘I won’t have you making another one for my sake; nor for anyone’s sake. Whatever choices you make must be for your own.’</p><p>‘Very well,’ says Dedue, gravely. And then adds, with an imperceptible smile: ‘I have the greatest faith in you, Dimitri.’</p><p><em> How far we have come, my old friend</em>. Dimitri nods, and if Dedue notes that his eye is wet, he says nothing. </p><p>The journey to the theatre where the debate is to be held is thereafter relatively brief. As Dedue rounds the corner into the correct street, Dimitri does not expect the long line of people assembled on the shiny-wet pavement; nor does he do how to act, how to <em> think, </em> when, the limo slowing, they crowd around it, and he sees their enthusiastic signs, their craned heads, their open mouths silent and shouting through the smoked glass. ‘Goddess,’ he breathes. Unsure what to do with admiration, recognition, or acceptance, he waits, uncertain, his hand lingering on the door handle. </p><p>Sylvain, thankfully—regrettably?—solves the problem for him. He circles the limo, navigating their admirers with ease, and pulls the door open. ‘Your Highness,’ he says, with an exaggerated bow, and holds out a large black umbrella. </p><p>Dimitri controls himself. </p><p>When he steps out of the car, he is smiling. Waves, cheerful, and tries not to be blinded by the blazing flashes of a thousand cameras. People are reaching out, trying to touch his sleeves, his shoulders, before the combined forces of Dedue and Sylvain make them shrink back. Still, Dimitri smiles and smiles. He shakes hands. He shouts hellos. ‘We’re counting on you,’ they say, and ‘You have to win this,’ and ‘I’ll vote for you, Dimitri!’ and ‘Do you think you can beat Claude?’</p><p>‘It’s not about beating anyone,’ Dimitri says, into the mic thrust in his face, ‘but giving Fódlan the best leader it can get. Claude is a very astute strategist and would doubtless do an excellent job.’</p><p>‘But you think you can get a better one?’ Excitement for a proper soundbite. </p><p>‘I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,’ Dimitri laughs, and <em> then </em> Sylvain propels him firmly forward into the theatre, grip tight on his shoulder. </p><p>Then comes the dizzying parade of make-up and soundchecks and the last revisions of his prepared speech. Annette is here, going over his schedule, and Mercedes, mending a burst seam, and then Ashe, propping up a tablet so Dimitri can see the latest numbers (good) and reactions by his fans online (bewildering). An embarrassing number of commenters are calling him <em> daddy</em>. Dimitri elects to ignore that. </p><p>‘Edelgard is the scary candidate,’ Ashe says, frowning, ‘and Claude is the approachable candidate. You’re somewhere between the two. You’re mysterious. Those five years you were gone from politics and—ah—‘</p><p>‘Life?’ Dimitri offers, with a wry smile.</p><p>‘Right—well, voters think it’s glamorous—and it is!’ says Ashe, with a sudden surge of excitement. ‘Lambert’s long-lost son, taking up his duty ten years after his father’s death, swearing to uphold his memory and standing up for what is right! It’s like something out of a fairy story!’</p><p>‘Ashe …’</p><p>‘Sorry. I know, I know.’ Ashe exchanges a look with Dedue that Dimitri has long given up on trying to elucidate, ruffles his painstakingly combed hair, which Dimitri counts as progress from Ashe’s severe case of hero worship, and gives him two eager thumbs up. ‘You’re going to crush this.’</p><p>‘Thank you, Ashe.’</p><p>‘It is time,’ says Dedue. </p><p>Dimitri sighs. Gives himself a last look-over in the mirror, scarcely recognizing the man there. </p><p>As they walk towards the stage, ducking underneath light fixtures and exchanging polite nothings with the star-struck personal assistant assigned to Dimitri’s charge, he catches sight of familiar figures. The Golden Deer are here as a crowd tonight, and Claude reigns among them in a royal suit, every inch the innate leader. Dimitri lifts a hand in greeting, and Claude tilts his head and winks at him. </p><p>Edelgard stands to the side, flanked only by her two commanders—Hubert von Vestra and Ferdinand von Aegir, as unalike in appearance as they are complicit in spirit. She inclines her head at Dimitri, and does not smile. Dimitri does not, in truth, remember the last time Edelgard has smiled at him. <em>The scary</em> <em>candidate</em>. Certainly she is the most radical of the three. Far from ever softening, she becomes more brilliant with every public appearance. Sadder, also. </p><p>Where Dimitri’s respect for Claude is only tempered with regret that they cannot work on the same side, his feelings toward Edelgard are more complex, and far sourer. It is loss; it is grief. He cannot but remember the year they spent together as children, when her presence calmed and cheered a lonely boy too often separated from his friends by his father’s responsibilities; he supposes, now, that it was very much like truly having a sister. He has lost her, as he has lost so many others. He wishes, profoundly, that it were possible for them to grow once more acquainted. Friends, perhaps. </p><p>Yet he knows that he must defeat her. He must, if he wishes to bring about forgiveness for the people of Duscur, protection for the poor and vulnerable, shelter for orphans and welfare for all. Edelgard’s projected measures deal in unfathomable what-ifs, and pit factions against one another in a way he can only see as unforgivable, in a time when unification and peace are so precious. Though he knows that she has the right of her convictions, he is conscious that her win might endanger the future of Fódlan as they know it. </p><p>He does not doubt she thinks the same of him. </p><p>‘Two minutes,’ the PA tells him, adjusting his headset, and Dimitri nods. </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>‘It is doubtful that we can truly bring unification to Fódlan until we choose to function together as a whole. The people of Duscur have suffered for ten years for a crime they have not committed. While that wound remains open, we will not—we cannot—truly heal as a nation.’</p><p>‘Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, what have you to say to those of your critics who decry your overwhelming concern for Duscur as detrimental to the citizens of Faerghus, and—what’s more—influenced by your own, personal relationships? Is it not your duty to represent <em> all </em> of your constituency?’</p><p>‘I believe I am doing so. I believe the majority of us wish to move on from the Tragedy that has taken my father’s life. Am I, as the sole survivor of that day, not uniquely placed to say that we should look on the past with clear eyes? I am not arguing for forgiveness, nor forgetfulness. I claim Duscur as innocent. As for my personal relationships, they are outside the purview of this debate.’</p><p>‘Yet you must concede that your personal chauffeur is a Duscur man.’</p><p>‘Dedue is a cherished friend. In knowing him, I have grown intimate with the persecutions his kin have endured. My friendships are not weaknesses. They offer me clarity of thought.’</p><p>‘Let us move on from that particular point. They are many who doubt that your birth alone makes you fit for the role you seek to occupy. Your father, Lambert, was reputed for his diplomacy and his leadership skills. His death was a national tragedy. What say you to the critics who call into question your competence and expertise in matters of state?’</p><p>‘I am not my father, it is true. I do not claim to be. There was a time when avenging him—or his memory—was my sole purpose. It is not so now. I know that my father’s vision for Fódlan was incomplete. What might have happened, had he not died … I do not know. But my convictions, my beliefs, my faith in the people I wish to lead, are my own. With all my heart, I believe that we can be a better nation than we were ten years ago. With all my heart, I believe that we will be better still ten years from now.’</p><p>‘Dimitri Blaiddyd—is it not uneasy for your voters to trust you when you have not yet been fully honest with them?’</p><p>‘I do not follow.’</p><p>‘For five years, you have been absent from politics. In fact you have been absent from public life altogether. Rumors have run rampant about your disappearance. Then you returned to the stage, triumphant, your father’s son, a man with experiences and talents undeniable; but where did you gain them? Can you tell us about that time?’</p><p>‘That is private, I fear.’</p><p>‘You must know that your refusal to come clean will alienate some voters.’</p><p>‘Is it my duty to do so? Or is my duty to lead to the best of my ability? I am quite clear as to my goals and my ambitions for the future of Fódlan. Those who choose in good conscience to deride and ridicule those objectives because they believe they have a right to my intimacy are welcome to do so.’</p><p>‘An eloquent answer. Claude von Riegan, any comments?’</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Two days after the debate, Felix waits under the arcades of the Ministry of Justice. Rain crashes around him, splashes of luminescent white and blue under a slate-dark sky. Every now and then thunderous rumbles echo above the Fhirdiad Royal Gardens, that last surviving exemplar of Faerghus’ long-ago Holy Kingdom. He wishes for a cigarette. He wishes for coffee, even the shitty stuff. </p><p>He thinks as he watches the soaked lawns and terraces of the Gardens of days now long gone, when he, Ingrid, and Sylvain trailed after Dimitri in these very lawns, while their fathers upstairs argued over matters of state. Brilliant sun, hide and seek, Glenn’s rebukes, Sylvain’s laughter, Ingrid’s determination—and Dimitri’s hand, in his. Golden afternoons, streaming one into the last. Dimitri pulling him under a statue, where they huddled, shushing each other and giggling. The light in Dimitri’s hair—the light in Dimitri’s lashes, fine as lace. An enormous love in Felix’s ribcage, growing and pulsing. No awareness, nor any fear, of their coming, inevitable future. </p><p>‘There you are,’ says a voice behind him, and the golden afternoon fades away back into rainfall. </p><p>Dorothea hands him a styrofoam cup. ‘You take it black, right?’</p><p>‘Thanks.’ The coffee is bitter and acrid and far too hot, and Felix revels in it. He burns his tongue, bites it to smooth it out. </p><p>Dorothea leans her back against a column and crosses a long-booted leg over the other. She sighs. ‘She’s been in there for two hours … that’s a good thing, surely?’</p><p>‘Probably,’ Felix lies. </p><p>‘Ministry endowments are worth more than a little nobody-cares debate.’</p><p>Felix grimaces in his coffee. Edelgard is an enthralling public speaker, but even von Vestra has been forced to admit it: she was cruelly overshadowed by Claude during their televised appearance. Claude’s charisma and intelligence are worth more on the campaign trail than all of Edelgard’s powerful ideals. While Edelgard still leads in Adrestia territories, the Golden Deer have gained a few critical points in the polls. If a Blue Lions wave steals over Faerghus on election day, it is now a possibility the Black Eagles will lose a crucial majority due to von Riegan’s interference. For the first time since the beginning of the race, who of the three will come off the eventual victor is truly up in the air. </p><p>A challenge, he thinks. An easy victory is not in Felix’s favor, nor in his parlance. He knows the Blue Lions, their manners and actions and reactions, better than anyone yet living in Fódlan. Who better than he, to ensure Edelgard defeats Dimitri? </p><p>It makes him want to vomit. </p><p>He knows. He <em> knows</em>.</p><p>He has chosen a path. </p><p>‘Here’s what I don’t understand,’ Dorothea says, inspecting him with half-lidded eyes as she lifts her own coffee to her lips.</p><p>‘What.’</p><p>‘Why <em> do </em> you work for Edie?’</p><p>Felix crushes the emptied styrofoam cup and drops it into the nearest garbage can. He meets Dorothea’s gaze dead-on. </p><p>She hums under her breath, and a smile curls up her fine mouth. ‘It was a surprise when she recruited you. When you accepted. Hubie didn’t want to trust you, then. He thought—we all thought!—you were far too loyal to Blaiddyd to work with us.’</p><p>‘Loyalty is a sham,’ says Felix. Somehow, his heart does not explode when he utters those words.</p><p>‘You don’t believe in Edie’s principles.’</p><p>‘No. I don’t.’ </p><p>‘Then why?’ </p><p>Felix shrugs. ‘She pays well.’</p><p>‘Is that all it takes for you to betray your friends?’</p><p>‘Apparently,’ Felix says, teeth bared. </p><p>Dorothea affects horror. ‘You don’t have to take that tone with me, little wolf. I won’t judge you, you know. If Dimitri … well. It takes a strong person to walk away from a man like <em> that</em>. Witness my own interest.’</p><p>‘Don’t count on me for introductions,’ Felix says, bitterly. He is all too familiar with the type of person who wants in Dimitri’s pants. Dorothea would not be so keen, had she seen the boar five years ago, in the throes of his … madness. ‘I’d be lucky to get within five yards of Blue Lions HQ.’</p><p>She laughs. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I will stay with Edie until she wins. But I have a career to go back to. I’m not done in just yet. Do you miss them?’</p><p>Felix looks at her. </p><p>‘Your friends,’ she says.</p><p>‘No,’ Felix says.</p><p>Dorothea is spared the trouble of replying by Edelgard’s approach. She has donned, for this especial interview, a tailored black suit embroidered with golden bees, and coiffed her white hair in a severe updo. Tired but pleased, she lets an enthusiastic Dorothea buss her cheek, gives a smile to von Vestra, who stands silently by her side, her coat thrown over his arm, and looks to Felix. </p><p>Felix looks back. </p><p>‘Can we beat him?’ Edelgard asks.</p><p>Felix says, ‘Which one?’</p><p>Her smile is weary. ‘If I wanted to defeat Claude—and I do, eventually—I would not be asking you. Should one desire to best a Blaiddyd, one must go through a Fraldarius. You understand this is an … unusual situation.’</p><p>Dorothea’s questioning makes better sense. ‘If my presence proves a conflict of interest, fire me.’</p><p>‘I had rather you proved your determination. Will you do it, when the time comes?’</p><p>Sourness coats the back of Felix’s throat. ‘Take Dimitri down.’</p><p>‘If you must.’ Edelgard’s eyes hide nothing, show nothing. ‘Yes.’</p><p><em> Loyalty is a sham</em>. Glenn is dead. Dimitri may have awoken from the beast he once became, but Felix sometimes sees something monstrous lurking behind his kingly façade: when they fuck, when they lie quiet in bed together: Dimitri’s fingers on his spine, Dimitri’s hand on his throat, Dimitri’s teeth in his lower lip. That is the conflict of interest, the one Edelgard knows nothing about. It may yet destroy him. It probably will. But …</p><p>He has chosen a path. </p><p>He says—</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>‘Dimitri,’ Ingrid says.</p><p>Dimitri comes to consciousness very slowly. He finds himself again. He finds <em> himself</em>. </p><p>He is lying on his office’s couch. His trousers are badly wrinkled. With a groan, he leverages himself into a sitting position, rubs his hand over his face. </p><p>‘Hi,’ Ingrid says, softly. She is silhouetted in the doorway, and the light crowns her hair with a halo. ‘I’m sorry. I know you need the sleep.’</p><p>‘It’s fine,’ Dimitri says, wearily. ‘Is something—’ He trails off. </p><p>Her eyes are tight; the expression on her face recalls terrible days. ‘The <em> Enbarr Morning </em>posted an op-ed half an hour ago. About Lambert.’</p><p>‘Oh.’</p><p>‘And—and about Glenn.’</p><p>Something cold and sick slips down Dimitri’s throat. He chokes out: ‘What—’</p><p>Sylvain is there, his hand stroking Ingrid’s neck. She leans briefly into the touch, and her eyes drift painfully shut. ‘You’d better come see for yourself, your Highness.’</p><p>It’s early enough that Blue Lions HQ is still mostly empty, lamps half-lit and blurry in the dim. Only his core team are all there, huddling around Ashe’s monitors with hard black coffees and grim expressions. Dedue, on Dimitri’s arrival, makes a gesture as though to reach out for his shoulder, and halts himself mid-air. </p><p>‘It’s not good,’ says Annette.</p><p>‘I’m sure they didn’t mean any harm,’ says Mercedes, though uncertainly.</p><p>‘We think it’s Cornelia,’ says Sylvain.</p><p>Dimitri reads. </p><p>The article lambasts Lambert with a viciousness that borders on sick glee. Non content with calling his politics into question, it stealthily interrogates his personal life, his two marriages, his rapport with his son, and his commitment to the newly-united continent. '<em>Did he rule Fódlan, or was his oft-lauded vision limited to Faerghus and the Fhirdiad elites? His relationship with his second wife, Patricia, suffered sourly from his absenteeism. Sources then close to the power couple tell us that Patricia Blaiddyd was melancholy and depressive, and longed to return to the destroyed happiness of her former marriage. As issue of that marriage, lest we forget, was Edelgard von Hresvelg, now a vaunted favorite in the leadership race against Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Lambert’s only son. What internal dissensions might have pushed the step-siblings to confront each other in such a public fashion? While Ms. von Hresvelg’s principles and ideals for the nation are well-known, Blaiddyd’s motivations remain unfortunately fogged and unclear. His disappearance from public life for five years has raised more questions than it has ever, or ever will, answer …'</em></p><p>‘Goddess,’ Dimitri whispers, and sits down.</p><p>
  <em>'Moreso than his life and political legacy, Lambert’s death was cloaked in mysterious circumstances. All that is definitely known of what has come to be called the Tragedy of Duscur is that Lambert and Patricia, as well as their entire retinue and security detail, were brutally murdered by Duscur nationalists during an official trip to that small province. The sole survivor of that day was Dimitri Blaiddyd himself, then aged thirteen. Why was he spared? Has his survival any connection with his now-insistence that Duscur was innocent of the hideous tragedy? It is well-known that Blaiddyd’s personal chauffeur is a Duscur man. Three days ago, during the debate that confronted him to Edelgard von Hresvelg and Claude von Riegan, Blaiddyd was seemingly unable to speak of anything but Duscur and the persecutions its people allegedly suffer.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Among the many notable deaths of that tragic day was Glenn Fraldarius, Dimitri’s then-bodyguard. Fraldarius was himself relatively new to his position, yet he protected his young charge with his last breath, and died tragically and gruesomely in front of him. One might expect this sacrifice to sever all ties between the Blaiddyd and Fraldarius families, for such an unnatural and futile death cannot but be rightfully resented. Yet, to this day, Glenn’s relatives remain faithful to Lambert’s son—Rodrigue Fraldarius, Lambert’s closest ally, has moved on to become a counsellor to Dimitri during his campaign (see picture 2c). When contacted for comment, Glenn Fraldarius’ father and brother have categorically refused to answer our demands for information. That is in itself suspicious—Blaiddyd’s campaign, though it prides itself on being the righteous choice, has been notoriously secretive and reticent to speak openly of the past, as our public—and their voters—must demand they do …'</em>
</p><p>‘I’m surprised they didn’t contact Glenn's former fiancée,’ Ingrid says, with heavy sarcasm.</p><p>‘That would have tipped their hand,’ Dimitri murmurs. The rest of the article is meaningless garbage, but the last paragraph is damning. </p><p>
  <em>'What truly happened that day in Duscur? Why was Dimitri Blaiddyd the only survivor of the tragedy, and why has Fraldarius not rightfully denounced him for their beloved Glenn’s death? Why is a Duscur man able to influence the politics of a candidate to the highest leadership role in our nation? Why does the ‘Blue Lions’ party not speak out about the internal factionalism that reportedly dogs their campaign trail? Worse of all: why did Dimitri Blaiddyd disappear for five years?'</em>
</p><p>Sylvain is already on the phone. ‘Lawyers,’ he mouths. </p><p>‘Ashe?’</p><p>‘It’s trending already,’ Ashe says, pitifully. ‘Sorry.’</p><p>‘We’ll have to put out a statement,’ Annette says. ‘Demand a retraction … ’</p><p>‘It’s too late for that,’ says Ingrid. ‘The Goddess damn them all! How dare they invoke Glenn’s death in this manner?’</p><p>‘Was your stepmother truly unhappy with her marriage?’ Deduce asks, as Dimitri bows his head. </p><p>‘I … do not know. It has been Cornelia’s stance for years, and this has her hand in it. All that I remember of her is that she was—she was very sad indeed. As for Edelgard … if she blames me for taking her mother away … yet, no: I cannot believe that she would take part in such a defamatory article.’</p><p>‘But von Vestra might sponsor it. He would do anything to see her win.’</p><p>‘If Edelgard has recruited Cornelia to her campaign, she’s implicitly approving of every dirty tactic she might use.’</p><p>‘Maybe Dimitri should go public with his—ah, mental health issues?’</p><p>‘I disagree, respectfully. Dimitri’s privacy is paramount.’</p><p>‘They’re trying to root into his past! They <em> want </em> him to take the brunt of media attention, after Edelgard’s miserably failed debate. Don’t you wonder why they’re not going after Claude? Dimitri is <em> vulnerable </em> . Maybe it <em> would </em> be better if he just came out with it and—’</p><p>‘Gain sympathy that way?’</p><p>‘It’s a gamble. Worst comes to pass—’</p><p>‘Enough,’ Dimitri says. His team falls silent. He sighs, closing his eyes. ‘I won’t talk about my … past. Not yet.’</p><p>‘Dimitri,’ Mercedes says, moved with concern.</p><p>‘No. I’m sorry. I’m not ready for it. But Annette is right. We should react, and quickly so.’</p><p>‘You sure?’ Sylvain, freshly off the phone. ‘Acknowledging these assholes is giving them the right of way. We <em> could </em> sue, sure, but … ’</p><p>‘If we call on the dogs of war,’ Dimitri says dreamily, ‘they will bring worse beasts to come after us. No. We will put out a quiet statement to talk about the Tragedy, pay our respects to the dead, and say plainly we wish to honor Lambert, Patricia, and Glenn’s memory.’ He meets Ingrid’s haunted eyes. ‘Put us on the moral high ground.’</p><p>‘Already on it,’ Annette says brightly. Sylvain puts his arm around Ingrid again, his habitual cynicism and jesting vanished, and Dedue says,</p><p>‘Are you alright?’</p><p>‘I,’ says Dimitri. He smiles. </p><p>‘I’m fine.’</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Felix is out jogging on the Fhirdiad esplanade when Rodrigue calls. Sweaty, breathless, he stares at the screen of his phone and considers not answering at all.</p><p>‘Yeah. What.’</p><p>‘I assume you’ve seen the article,’ his father says. </p><p>‘Yeah,’ he says, and then: ‘... yeah.’</p><p>‘I’m glad you didn’t—’ Rodrigue’s voice is uncharacteristically awkward. Felix hates the sound of it. ‘—well. Comment.’</p><p>‘You thought,’ Felix says flatly, ‘that I would take part in an article that politicizes Glenn’s death.’</p><p>Rodrigue sighs. ‘I no longer know, my son.’</p><p>‘Let me tell you,’ Felix snaps. ‘I’m not interested in romanticizing my brother’s death. I’m not interested in your keeping his honor alive, or whatever the hell you think you’re doing, but I’m <em>damned</em> if I’ll let him become political collateral in Cornelia’s little mindgames. Glenn died for the boar—’</p><p>‘—Dimitri—’</p><p>‘—it was a fucking horrible death, and nothing you or I can say will ever make that better. He’s <em> dead</em>. I think about him every day, and he’s <em> still dead</em>.’</p><p>‘So do I,’ says Rodrigue, sounding pained. ‘I miss him too, Felix. Dimitri—’</p><p>‘Don’t you dare.’</p><p>‘I know he feels his loss.’</p><p>‘Right,’ Felix says, lips white. ‘Right.’</p><p>‘I know I cannot pretend to understand what you have gone through.’</p><p>‘No.’</p><p>‘And yet—Felix, ah, I wish that we could again talk like we used to.’</p><p>‘We’re on different political sides,’ Felix says, turning towards home. It’s starting to rain—again—Fhirdiad being so far up north that in the colder months the weather is thunderous and icy. He pulls his jacket hood over his head, rubs his gloved hands over his mouth. ‘What would we have to say to each other?’</p><p>‘I’ve never understood why you felt you had to leave the Blue Lions,’ his father says, as Felix’s shoes begin to pound the pavement again. </p><p>‘I couldn’t watch you fawn over the boar,’ he says, a horrible sourness coating his tongue. ‘Panting after him like your own personal savior. Pathetic.’</p><p>‘You left just as he was beginning to get better—’</p><p>‘Don’t you dare lecture me,’ Felix yells, and a passing grandma gives him a scandalized look and a wide berth. ‘I was there, old man. I was with him for a year while he ate himself alive. I was the one who made damn sure he was fed and washed, who weathered his episodes, who let him rant and pace himself to sleep every night. I was alone with him. Me. Only me. Everybody else walked on eggshells around him. Didn’t dare contradict him. Didn’t dare <em> touch </em> him.’</p><p>‘You were the only one he allowed close to him,’ Rodrigue says, but wearily. They have had this argument before. They will have it again. ‘I realize you’ve made sacrifices for his sake. Loving Dimitri is not an easy task.’</p><p>Felix’s throat closes up. And the heavens open up. </p><p>He hangs up, incautiously. When his phone lights up again, he turns it off, stuffs it down his jacket, and makes his way arduously home—through the deluge. </p><p>He’s within arm’s reach of his front door and thinking longingly of a hot shower when he sees the man standing in the rain.</p><p>Dimitri. Wearing a long coat, his head bent, his darkened hair sticking to his head and his cheeks—he is soaked to the skin. As Felix slows his approach he looks up, and Felix sees in his single eye a daunting despair that takes him back years in the past. </p><p>Felix stops in front of him. </p><p>He lifts one gloved hand, and he pushes Dimitri’s bangs from his face. He doesn’t make his touch any more tender than he must. It’s tender anyway.</p><p>‘Felix,’ Dimitri says, voice small, sounding lost. </p><p>‘What are you, a stray dog?’ Felix’s throat is tight. ‘Showing up like this.’ </p><p>And then: ‘Get inside.’</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Felix strips him of his clothes and shoves him bodily into the shower.</p><p>‘Get yourself cleaned up,’ he says, lip curling. ‘You’re soaked through. It’s disgusting. I’ll find you clothes.’</p><p>Dimitri turns the heat up to the maximum and stands naked under the stream. Slowly, the iciness permeating his flesh and bones melts away under that growing warmth, though his extremities are still frozen and his mind in a haze. He blinks, and droplets of water catch in his lashes. His vision blurs. He leans his hand, then his forehead, against the steaming wall of the shower stall. His body is sore and painful. His chest and ribcage ache as though with the pounding of an internal heart. </p><p>Like this—naked and wet, with his hair clinging to his face and his thighs struggling to carry his weight—he is more vulnerable than he ever allows himself to be. Too many of his nights are spent in hotel rooms; it is the price to pay when he does not wish to attract the attention of the media. Even now, he dreads having been followed: dreads having brought them to Felix, to this haven of safety and light he guards so preciously. But he must not have been—he sent Dedue in the car on ahead. Their tracks are muddled. The rain hides all sins.  </p><p>The water pummels his back, a deep even pleasure. Felix’s water pressure is excellent, a feature that must cost him dearly. But then: Edelgard must pay him well. </p><p>Dimitri closes his eye against a stab of pain. </p><p>The shower stall opens. </p><p>‘Shove over,’ Felix says, brusquely, and removes his sweater over his head in one long, smooth movement. </p><p>Dimitri, open-mouthed, backs off against the further wall as Felix kicks off his pants and comes in. He slides the stall door shut behind him; tips his head into the stream, exhaling a short, angry burst of air. The stall is hardly made for two—Dimitri has to put his hands on Felix’s hips to steady them both—and their bodies brush, wet and slick. Felix’s penis is soft against his thigh. </p><p>The unbearable, unspeakable intimacy of it chokes at Dimitri’s throat. He bows his head; closes his eye. Says: ‘I’m sorry.’</p><p>‘What for.’ Felix is looking at his chest, mostly.</p><p>‘I know I don’t have the right to—intrude on your privacy. Anymore.’</p><p>Felix laughs, sharp and cynical. ‘Not like it matters, in the long run. You’ve taken everything from me. What’s this? Another loss. That’s all.’</p><p>‘Is that what I am to you,’ Dimitri says. His voice, muffled by the water, is very soft. ‘A loss. A grievance.’</p><p>Felix closes his eyes, looking pained. ‘I lost you a long time ago.’</p><p>‘It shouldn’t have to be that way,’ Dimitri says, lying his hands on top of Felix’s where they rest on his pectorals. ‘I want … Felix—I want—’ He bows his head, hesitating. Felix doesn’t look like he wishes for intimacy, affection, or anything resembling closeness. His body is wound up, every muscle taut and tight with anticipation. </p><p>‘Whatever you’re going to say,’ Felix chokes out, ‘say it.’</p><p>‘Felix,’ Dimitri says, his voice fracturing horribly, and kisses him, catching Felix’s soft lips with his own. Felix makes a sound like he wasn’t expecting that at all, and kisses back furiously, ferociously, his nails digging in little semi-circles of pain on the flesh of Dimitri’s pecs. Dimtri’s arms come around him, wrapping around Felix’s waist and pulling him close, until their chests press together slickly and the warm water runs into their open mouths. </p><p>‘I want,’ Dimitri moans, between wet, staggering, <em> amazing </em> kisses, ‘I want—oh Felix—’ His hands slip down to Felix’s ass and take whole palmfuls, and this time the sound Felix makes is a lot more explicit. Dimitri spans his fingers around Felix’s thigh, grinding his hips helplessly into Felix’s groin. </p><p>Felix groans, and hooks up his thigh around his waist. He’s half-hard now, pressing insistently against Dimitri’s cock. ‘Like this,’ he says, sighing. ‘Just like this.’</p><p>‘Are you—’ Dimitri swallows, then buries his face in Felix’s neck, mouths at the soft, sensitive skin of his collarbone and throat. His lips part, his teeth scrape by. The shudder that goes through Felix is delicious indeed. </p><p>‘Don’t ask me if I’m sure,’ Felix says, and he works his fingers in Dimitri’s hair, taking a firm, harsh grip, and <em> pulling</em>. Dimitri is pulled. Dimitri moans. </p><p>Dimitri gives him everything he wants. </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Later—when they are done—Dimitri curls his bare, tired body around Felix’s body on Felix’s mattress. His hand strokes up and down Felix’s chest, drawing long, deep breaths out of his lover. </p><p>The word feels inadequate, but so does every other one. Friend with benefits? Affair partner? He prefers to think of what they are doing between themselves as love-making. Making it, as a jeweller shapes gold. </p><p>And Felix did love him once. Dimitri’s memories of his childhood are blurred in that slightly golden haze that permeates the time before the Tragedy, but he well remembers Felix as he was then: a sweet, sensitive boy with a crying trigger and a protective streak a mile wide. Non content was he guarding Dimitri from Sylvain’s older-child cracks, so too did he fiercely protect Sylvain from Miklan’s physical jabs, and Ingrid from every boy who thought they would exclude the <em> girl </em> from their games. He would shed genuine horrified tears whenever he was excluded from a trip Dimitri must perforce take with his father; and, upon his return, would cling to him for a full afternoon, his little hand grasping Dimitri’s, a scowl upon his face. A little chubby around the cheeks, his hair still, then, as wavy as Glenn’s used to be, Felix was adorable. </p><p>He has grown into a man as sharp as a blade, all angles. That sweet baby fat has melted away, and he no longer cries. Dimitri believes—since Glenn’s death.</p><p>Felix now decries protectiveness. He has no time for childish pastimes; nor for childish affections. He works alone, in this shit little flat, for people he quite openly despises, to defeat Dimitri. </p><p>Is he lonely? Is he safe? Is he ever kind to himself? Dimitri’s hold on him tightens at the thought, and Felix makes a displeased sound from somewhere in his chest, but doesn’t rebuke him. </p><p>In the worst of Dimitri’s madness—those five years when he was lost, too much in a howling storm to endure the rest of the world looking upon him—Felix stayed. Felix found him; Felix was with him. Felix brought him food and didn’t budge from Dimitri’s darkened bedroom until Dimitri ate, though it fell to ash on Dimitri’s tongue, though he ate as roughly as a feral animal. Felix forced him to wash, to change his clothes every day, to face the sun. When a particularly bad episode would have Dimitri clawing at the walls and sobbing his heart out, when nothing but the encroaching darkness made any sense, when his body was little more than an endless source of pain, Felix watched over him. Nothing could make Dimitri’s ghosts disappear, but Felix damn well tried. </p><p>He runs his hand up Felix’s spine again, tangling his fingers in his hair. Freed of its habitual bun, it’s very soft. Dimitri rubs a lock between thumb and forefinger.</p><p>‘I love your hair,’ he whispers. </p><p>Felix snorts. </p><p>‘I do,’ Dimitri insists, fully running his hand through it now, taking a warm grip at the base of Felix’s neck and stroking his fingers through it. ‘It’s … fluffy.’</p><p>Felix stretches in his grasp, very much like a cat; sighs, and when he pulls himself up on Dimitri’s chest he is almost smiling: there is a subtle curve to his lips. He reaches out for the pack of cigarettes on the crate that forms his bedside table. </p><p>Dimitri rests his cheek against his fist and watches as Felix cups his hand around his smoke and strikes a match. He watches the way Felix’s lips curl around the butt of the cigarette. He watches the way his hand arches as he takes the first drag, and then the long, slow exhale, the sweet-smelling smoke, luminous in the semi-darkness. It’s still raining out, dusk-dark, and the window is all blues, neon lights staining the walls and parquet of Felix’s bedroom in wide, changing shapes. Felix brings his knees up and rests his outstretched arm over them. He brings the cigarette to his lips, and Dimitri is overcome with a stunning affection. </p><p>‘Will you win?’ Felix asks, without looking at him. </p><p>‘I intend to try, certainly,’ Dimitri says, truthfully. He stretches out his fingers to touch the small of Felix’s back. ‘Would you stop me, Felix?’</p><p>‘Edelgard asked me if I could take you down, if the need called for it.’</p><p>Dimitri takes this in. His hand splays over Felix’s back. ‘What did you tell her?’</p><p>Felix’s mouth twists in displeasure. ‘It is my <em>literal</em> <em>job to obey her commands</em>.’</p><p>‘I … see.’ Dimitri pushes himself up and reaches out for the cigarette. He plucks it from Felix’s fingers, smiling at Felix’s nonplussed glance, and lifts it to his own lips. </p><p>He has never really smoked, apart from a few social blazes back in their Academy days. Still, it’s muscle memory, the act of taking a long drag, the sensation of curling smoke in his throat, slipping down his lungs. He swallows it. It sinks sweetly in his body, like a physical thing, tender wispy coils looping into his fingertips, in his ribs, in his brain. The second drag is more bitter, sharper and hot, and he holds it in for a moment before he exhales, the smoke in between them, full of light. Through the smoke; Felix watches him. His eyes are the same color, like ember and honey, made darker by the fall of those incredibly sooty lashes. </p><p>Dimitri offers the cigarette back, and Felix takes it, their fingers brushing. His mouth parts around it, and though Dimitri’s own mouth has touched Felix everywhere he finds that he is blushing. Felix’s eyes drift shut, his head tilts back, baring the long sweet expanse of his bare throat. There are marks on his shoulders from Dimitri’s lips and marks on his hips from Dimitri’s hands, and Dimitri aches for him so badly it feels like grief. </p><p>They pass the cigarette between them like this for long minutes, naked on Felix’s too-sparse mattress. As Felix takes the last drag he holds it in, and puts out the smoke on an ashtray on the crate; then he slips his hand around Dimitri’s neck and pulls his mouth down to his mouth. </p><p>Smoke bleeds out between their lips as they kiss. Dimitri’s fingers are in his lover’s hair, and that hair is down on Felix’s shoulders, swift and silken. Holding someone so dangerous and so sure, yet so precious, Dimitri is aware that he must take care. There is a legitimate risk in every stolen hour they have together. Yet—</p><p>They defy strategies. </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>The day the status quo comes crashing down, Dimitri is at a social function for the financing of charitable hospitals. Claude, resplendent in cloth-of-gold, his artful curls falling over his eyes boyishly, shares in the media attention with relish. And so it is with Claude looking on and a wine glass in hand, in a well-fitted suit that Dimitri nonetheless feels overwarm in, that Dimitri is asked:</p><p>‘Any comment on the breaking revelations re: your sex life?’</p><p>Claude chokes into his wine. </p><p>Dimitri stares at the mic thrust in his face and says evenly: ‘I don’t know what you’re referring to.’</p><p>The journalist makes a show of pulling out their phone. The mic stays right where it is. </p><p>The photos are damning. Dimitri stands outside Felix’s apartment. Felix is seen from the back, then in profile. His fingers tangle in Felix’s hair, dislodging the bun in that way he likes. Their mouths meet. It’s explicit enough. Dimitri’s hands slip in the back pockets of Felix’s jeans; Felix’s hands slide under his shirt. He can make out the wrinkles at the corners of Felix’s eyes: he can make out the smirk that curls up his mouth when he drags Dimitri inside. This was six months ago.</p><p>‘Oh, shit,’ Claude says. </p><p>‘Who is that man,’ the journalist presses. </p><p>Dimitri closes his eyes.</p><p>‘Why have you not been forthcoming and honest with your voters about your sexuality?’</p><p>‘Excuse me,’ Dimitri says, clipped.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p><em>You son of a bitch</em>, says Felix’s phone. </p><p>He turns on the TV, forgetting coffee and breakfast toast.</p><p>‘... <em> the latest groundbreaking revelations. Frontrunner Dimitri Blaiddyd’s campaign has been hit hard by these latest disclosures about a secret relationship. Little is yet known of the man who appears on those intimate close-ups of a late-night rendezvous; it is enough that Blaiddyd, who, until now, has prided himself on his forthrightness and integrity, to the point that these values have become cornerstones of a very public race, has not been entirely forthcoming about his sexuality to his voters. While some would argue that a celebrity’s personal life deserves respect and privacy, many are clamoring for greater trustworthiness and sincerity on the part of their favored candidates. To be sure, if Blaiddyd seeks to be elected to the highest seat in government, he would do well to be honest with his constituency … ’  </em></p><p>Onscreen, Dimitri is white-faced and tight-lipped. Dark, ugly bags deepen the grooves under his eye. He ignores the journos thrust in his past, nodding briefly as Annette and Mercedes flank him, either side. </p><p>
  <em> ‘... has come after several media outlets have pointed out glaring deficiencies in Blaiddyd’s personal narrative. Many have questioned the five-year gap in his resume, five years during which nothing is known of his life, his acquaintances, or his health. The Blue Lions have been notoriously tight-lipped regarding this chasm in their leader’s history, and it is to be wondered whether they, themselves, are at all as much in his full confidence as they would like to be.  </em>
</p><p><em> ‘The shocking tabloid pictures revealing Blaiddyd’s affair have certainly come as a massive, possibly race-threatening surprise to his campaign. His campaign managers, Sylvain Gautier and Ingrid Galatea, have refused to answer our requests for an interview, which begs the question: did </em> they <em> know about this secretive relationship, or did Blaiddyd throw smoke in their eyes?’ </em></p><p>Felix’s phone buzzes, insistently. Standing by the table, coffee up lingering in his hand, he ignores it. </p><p>
  <em> ‘Blaiddyd’s competitors, Claude von Riegan and Edelgard von Hresvelg, have both declined to comment, no doubt waiting for Blaiddyd’s official statement. Yet they too must feel that these leaks are a great upset in a now fast-closing race. If they wish to gain the upper hand, they must act fast: election day looms but one week from now …’ </em>
</p><p>This time, when Felix’s phone rings, it is with the chime of an incoming call. Rodrigue. Felix declines on automatic. He feels. He—</p><p>He feels—</p><p>Cold. </p><p>He thinks of Dimitri, and he can’t breathe.</p><p><em> ‘Breaking.' </em>The journalist’s voice cannot now conceal their mountainous excitement, professional indifference be damned. </p><p>The screen flashes back to one of the candids: Dimitri’s thumb on his cheek, his fingers in his hair. His mouth on Felix’s mouth. </p><p>‘<em>O</em><em>fficial sources confirm the identity of the man seen on the now-infamous pictures. In what is but the latest in a series of shocking twists and turns, this man turns out to be Felix Hugo Fraldarius, brother to the very Glenn Fraldarius who gave his life for Dimitri Blaiddyd during the Tragedy of Duscur, and son to Rodrigue Fraldarius, one of Lambert’s closest associates and friends.  </em></p><p><em>‘Little is known of Felix Fraldarius, though he appears to have been raised from infancy to be Dimitri Blaiddyd’s bosom companion. Our sources call them, quote, ‘inseparable as children’, as can be seen on  this photograph, taken some twenty years ago, in which the two boys were caught in quite</em> <em>the display of brotherly affection. </em></p><p>
  <em> ‘Far from having stayed at Blaiddyd’s side, however, Fraldarius appears to have defected from the Blue Lions some years ago; he is now rumored to work for Edelgard von Hresvelg herself. Did Ms. von Hresvelg know she harbors such a serpent in her breast? Or—more pertinently—was she aware of Fraldarius’ seditious affair with her opponent? Was this a ploy on the part of the Black Eagles party to discredit and expose the hypocrisy of their antagonists? Was it, perhaps, Fraldarius’ idea?’ </em>
</p><p>There is coffee on the floor. Shards of porcelain on the floor. Felix is only peripherally aware of them. There is a pounding in his ears, though that might be the now-continuous buzzing of his phone. </p><p>He glances down at the screen. The latest message comes from Hubert von Vestra.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em> Edelgard requires your presence in her office at your earliest convenience.  </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Life-long star-crossed love affair or political double-cross? Only one man can answer that question. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ‘We will be following the repercussions of these revelations as the situation progresses. Stay with us.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>‘I,’ says Ingrid, ‘am going to kill him.’</p><p>Dimitri says, wearily: ‘He didn’t know.’</p><p>‘You don’t know that,’ says Sylvain, pacing. He is strained and wrinkled; his lips are contorted in a snarl of rage. ‘If Edeglard and von Vestra cooked this up between themselves—you said these photos are six months old. They must have known all along.’</p><p>‘It’s unadvisable to sleep with the enemy, Dimitri,’ Ingrid says, with a grave little smile.</p><p>‘Whatever residue of affection you still have for Felix,’ says Sylvain, ‘I can’t pretend to understand it. He betrayed us. He betrayed <em> you</em>. Gave up on all of his friends for a fatter paycheck. He doesn’t even pretend that isn’t what he did. If you had to sleep with one of Edelgard’s closest advisors, why couldn’t it be von Aegir? At least we might have recruited <em> him </em> to our side<em>.</em>’</p><p>‘This isn’t about Edelgard’s advisors.’</p><p>‘Yeah, I know. This is about whatever magical history you and Felix have, years of angst and pining, blah blah <em> blah </em> . Look. It would be hypocritical of me to call you out for sleeping around. But this isn’t you sleeping around—this is about you <em> repeatedly </em>getting into bed with the one person you would be well advised to stay the fuck away from.’</p><p>‘That’s enough, Sylvain,’ Ingrid says. Her hands clench rhythmically around her phone. She has been texting, on and off, their donors, consultants, and counselors, throughout this entire debacle. ‘Dimitri’s sex life is none of our business.’</p><p>‘Dimitri’s sex life is political whether he likes it or not,’ Sylvain sighs, but he drags his hands over his face, and nods. ‘Okay. Right. So what do we do now?’</p><p>‘What is the most politically expedient measure?’ Dimitri inquires. He feels remarkably calm. The original onslaught of panic has given way to an absurd sensation of peace.</p><p>‘Come out,’ Sylvain says instantly. ‘Do it now; ride the wave. If we can turn this around to say that your right to your privacy and sexuality was violated in an unmistakably cruel way, and bring shame to those who call you unethical for having sex with another man—’ Dimitri winces— ‘we can stay in the race.’</p><p>‘It could work in our favor,’ Ingrid agrees, reluctantly. ‘If you’re shown to be a victim of a disgraceful outing, but rise to the occasion and denounce the hypocrisy of your rivals—’</p><p>‘You can garner sympathy. Neither Edelgard nor Claude have said anything yet. We got to speak out before they do.’</p><p>‘Dimitri.’ Dimitri glances up from his laced hands. Ingrid sits gingerly next to him, setting her fingers upon his wrist. ‘How long has this … thing … with Felix been going on?’</p><p>Dimitri shakes his head. ‘I—hardly know. When we were in the same city, we got together. In secret. Nobody knew.’</p><p>Sylvain says sharply, ‘It can’t happen again, Dimitri.’</p><p>‘And you said nothing, for all this time.’ Ingrid looks pained. ‘How did you think it would continue, once you became elected? When every eye in Fódlan was on you, and he worked with Edelgard still?’</p><p>‘I don’t know.’ He thinks of Felix, sitting on his mattress in that bare bedroom he scarcely lives in, cigarette to his mouth. The arch of his wrist, the curve of his bare neck. He looked tired. He looked like he has felt every one of the past few years. Does he regret leaving? Does he regret Dimitri? Or is wanting him—for Dimitri cannot fool himself into thinking Felix does not want him, at least sexually—mere muscle memory, a remnant of the past, better left behind? ‘We hardly thought.’</p><p>Sylvain sinks to a crouch in front of him. His red hair is wild from his fingers, but he looks uncharacteristically grim. ‘What do you want us to do?’</p><p>Dimitri gazes at him. Sylvain and Ingrid have been at his side from the very beginning of his campaign—no: longer still. They are his faithful companions, his campaign managers, his <em> friends. </em>‘You’re right. I need to call a press conference.’</p><p>Sylvain slaps his thigh. <em> Ow, </em> Dimitri mouths. ‘That’s what I’m <em> talking </em> about.’</p><p>‘We’ll work on your speech,’ Ingrid says, working hard on suppressing a proud smile. ‘Anything you think we should include?’</p><p>‘We as a nation strive for better than malicious malingering,’ Dimitri says. ‘I realize that the perceived slight is the concealing of my private life, and not the fact of my bisexuality. I have the greatest faith in my voters’ abilities to recognize a smear campaign a week out from the election. There is no shame in standing where I stand now; many before me have been forced to make revelations about their intimacy that they consider unforgivable, and sadly many more will doubtless be the victims of similar besmirching in future years. In uniting Fódlan, we prove that we are more than prejudice and enmity.’ He shrugs, sheepishly. ‘You will know what to say better than I.’</p><p>‘No doubt,’ says Ingrid, grinning. Then hesitates. ‘And—Felix? They’ll ask.’</p><p> ‘We call to respect his privacy. He won’t say a word.’</p><p>‘Has he contacted you?’ she asks quietly. </p><p>‘No. I wouldn’t be surprised if he—’ Dimitri bites his lip. ‘If he left Fhirdiad, after this.’ <em> If he left me </em>. ‘I certainly wouldn’t blame him if he did.’</p><p>‘Sympathy for the enemy,’ Sylvain says roughly, ‘will be your doom, and ours too. Don’t you dare call him, Dimitri,’ and slings his arm around Dimitri’s shoulders as they sit there, the three of them, united in common purpose. </p><p>They miss a fourth.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>‘Hey.’</p><p>‘... hey.’</p><p>Felix’s voice is weary, wary. Dimitri stands in the shadowed wings of the press conference, his phone to his ear, watching as the proceedings on the lit-up stage unfold. Sound checks. Light checks. Mic checks. The room is full, abuzz with electricity and excitement. </p><p>‘I’m about to come out on national television,’ Dimitri says. </p><p>‘Oh,’ says Felix. And then: ‘Don’t tell me that.'</p><p>Dimitri leans his back against the wall, tilts back his head. ‘How are you, Felix?’</p><p>‘Journalists with cameras are camped outside my kitchen window,’ Felix says wryly. ‘And I’m out of coffee.’</p><p>‘A national tragedy.’ Dimitri smiles. ‘Ingrid and Sylvain have remonstrated me for, quote, sleeping with the enemy. The Blue Lions are tiptoeing around me, in case I go into a … rage.’</p><p>‘Ingrid and Sylvain are not wrong.’</p><p>‘If they could hear you, Felix.’</p><p>‘We were irresponsible. We’re grown men. We should have known better. This mess was inevitable.’</p><p>Dimitri takes a deep breath. ‘There is a way to alleviate it.’</p><p>‘... continue.’</p><p>‘I’m offering you a job,’ Dimitri says. </p><p>Felix is silent. </p><p>‘Come back,’ says Dimitri. ‘Come back to us. Work with us again. Leave Edelgard, leave … come back. You’ve been gone too long; we feel your absence. We miss you. I can’t stand to see your chair stand empty at a core team meeting.’</p><p>‘What are you saying.’ Felix’s voice is strangled. ‘Empty chairs—what is this bullshit.’</p><p>‘I’m saying that we—that I—work better with you than without you. I want you to be one of my advisors. I want you to give your opinion on our practices, to help build our speeches, to counsel our junior volunteers. To stand by my side when I get voted in. I would swear my oath with you beside me, if I could … ’</p><p>‘I’m sure the fact that I work for your direct competitor factors into none of that.’</p><p>‘I won’t pretend it wouldn’t be to our advantage,’ Dimitri says fairly. ‘But that’s not why I want you. Your work ethic, your loyalty, your dedication—’</p><p>‘We shouldn’t do this anymore,’ Felix says. ‘See each other. Ever again.’</p><p>Dimitri’s breath turns to ash in his lungs. ‘Felix … ’</p><p>‘I mean it, boar. This was a mistake from the start. I knew it, yet— never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m going to delete this number, after this.’</p><p>‘I don’t understand.’</p><p>A short, bitter laugh. ‘There’s nothing to understand. We’re done. We’re through. I should have done this a long time ago.’</p><p>‘Don’t,’ Dimitri whispers. ‘Don’t do this.’</p><p>‘I have to,’ Felix says, his voice like iron. ‘Goodbye.’</p><p>
  <em> Click. </em>
</p><p>The back of Dimitri’s head hits the wall. He grits his teeth. </p><p>Dedue, coming from the stage, gives him a quizzical look. ‘Two minutes. Are you—well?’</p><p>‘No,’ Dimitri snaps, and immediately feels abominable. ‘I, ah—apologies. I simply … ’ A useless, vacant, stupid little gesture, which obviously shows off his phone. He can’t even bother to hide it. Dedue will know.</p><p>He does. ‘Ah. You called him.’</p><p>Dimitri nods. He rubs his hand over his face. ‘I am … weak.’</p><p>‘What did he say?’ Dedue asks, finally. Nothing in his voice gives away any kind of judgement, which Dimitri is pathetically grateful for. </p><p>‘He—’ Dimitri’s smile feels artificial on his lips. ‘He ended things.’</p><p>‘I see. I am very sorry.’ No <em> good; </em> no <em> perhaps it’s for the best. </em>Dimitri’s eyes sting. </p><p>‘It matters not. Ingrid was correct. It would not have lasted. I could not maintain a secret relationship with my rival’s advisor after I was elected.’ Every word is sour. ‘They are waiting for me. I should—’</p><p>‘Yes.’ But Dedue’s large hand curls around his shoulder, and Dimitri leans into his warmth for a long and selfish moment. ‘You will be successful, Dimitri. I have no doubt of it.’</p><p>‘As ever, my friend—’ Dimitri shakes his head. ‘Your faith in me humbles me. Thank you, Dedue.</p><p>He lifts his head. </p><p><em> We’re through</em>, Felix says, in his ear <em> . </em></p><p>He walks into the lights. </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Felix’s fingers shake finely as he deletes Dimitri’s number from his phone contacts. He takes a long, juddering breath, shoves the phone down his jeans pocket, and walks into Black Eagles HQ. </p><p>As he walks to Edelgard’s office, heads turn in his path. Silence spreads, impossible to ignore. He hears a muffled giggle, and a <em> hush! </em> A volunteer who cannot be older than eighteen scurries away from him, her startled look melting into inevitable and censuring recognition. </p><p>With Edelgard stand Dorothea and Hubert von Vestra, badly agitated and pale-cheeked. They, too, fall silent, as Felix closes the door behind him. </p><p>‘Ah,’ says Edelgard. </p><p>She looks as tired as Dimitri. Her pale hair is nonetheless curled in elaborate swirls—von Vestra’s doing, no doubt—and her satin black blouse is immaculate and unwrinkled. It’s only in the lines around her eyes, and around her mouth, that Felix sees the resemblance to her step-brother: she is as stubborn as a mule, as much so as Dimitri is. She too will see her vision of Fódlan through, or else die trying. </p><p>She meets Felix’s eyes with a disillusioned, embittered look of her own. Gone is the political firebrand whose tongue has enlightened crowds: she is a young woman, no older than Felix, whose responsibilities have become of late increasingly burdensome. Her associates are louche, for she has consorted with them in the hope of changing the world for the better. That is her path, and her reckoning. But Felix has never cared for Edelgard’s passionate radicalism; those diehard principles were never why he joined her campaign. </p><p>No. Back then—after that horrible year—he could no longer look at Dimitri without pain. Illusions lost, phantasms dancing, he sold out his own friends and sacrificed his own happiness for the chance to escape. Better to be a wandering mercenary than heart-mad with a love that would never go anywhere. </p><p>‘We should have expected this,’ von Vestra says. His sallow cheeks and pale composure belie his weariness. It is to be expected that no one among the Black Eagles has had very much time to sleep, and Hubert von Vestra is a man used to service before self-care. In that respect, the venom in his tone is not altogether surprising. ‘A dog remains faithful to his master.’</p><p>‘As you know,’ Felix says, unblinking. </p><p>‘Hubie,’ Dorothea protests. Her hair too is lanky, and she curls up on Edelgard’s couch in a pair of sweatpants that she would normally not be seen dead in. ‘That’s not fair.’</p><p>‘This situation is critical, Dorothea,’ von Vestra says, frowning. </p><p>‘What do you propose we do?’ Edelgard asks, lacing her fingertips under her chin. ‘There are many courses of action in front of us, each equally damning. What Arundel has done in outing Dimitri was wrong, I must acknowledge it.’ She bows her head. ‘But it is done. This information cannot be removed from the world. Our task—is to react accordingly, with the knowledge of what we have done. What we have allowed to happen. I find … I find I do not see the way.’</p><p>von Vestra’s hand hovers in the air above her shoulder, then drops away. Felix experiences a horrible sense of sympathy, which he promptly smothers.</p><p>‘Blue Lions HQ has called for a press conference,’ he says. ‘He’s about to come out publicly.’</p><p>Edelgard blinks. ‘Indeed. How do you know it?’</p><p>‘Call it privileged information.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s in your best interest to support him. Give an interview as soon as his conference is over. What was done cannot happen again. Make it obvious. Make it clear. Denounce Arundel, if that part of the truth comes out.</p><p>‘I am truly very sorry,’ she says. ‘For your part in it, as well. Your privacy ought never to have been invaded so.’</p><p>‘I don’t want an apology. I want to do my job.’</p><p>‘You would have me rewrite history. Gain favor with the Blue Lions, now, mere days before the election?’</p><p>‘When you hired me, it was with the understanding that my familiarity with the Blue Lions would give you an edge over them. You trusted me. Trust me now. This is the most politically expedient tactic.’</p><p>‘How convenient,’ von Vestra sneers, ‘that it happens to be the most beneficial thing for your boyfriend.’</p><p>Felix gives him a long, blank look. </p><p>‘Peace,’ Edelgard says. She sighs. ‘Arundel … my uncle plays several games at once. I could not have guessed he would have Dimitri followed. I do not—evidently—control him as well as I ought. It is why we must win: do you see? Our victory is to bring an end to a world where the wealthy and the powerful—those crest-bearing families—control others with impunity.’</p><p>‘Save it for the voters,’ says Felix. ‘I quit.’</p><p>‘Oh,’ Dorothea says, very softly. ‘Oh, Felix.’</p><p>‘Good,’ von Vestra murmurs. ‘This is a … liability we are better without.’</p><p>Edelgard closes her eyes, for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is deeply troubled. ‘I understand. I cannot ask you to stay. In a just world, Dimitri and I would be able to put our differences aside, and your own intimacy would not have been violated. As things are, however, our only choice is to challenge each other. I would only ask you that you do not go to the media.’</p><p>Felix nods. At the door, though, he turns back. ‘You asked me once whether I could take him down.’</p><p>‘Yes. I remember.’</p><p>‘I said I didn’t know. I still don’t.’</p><p>In this light, Edelgard’s face looks like a skull—her hair bleached white, her bones stark under her skin. ‘Loyalty is inconvenient to people like us. But we must try … ’</p><p>Felix laughs, and walks away without another glance. And then, when he is outside in the bracing Fhirdiad cold, as the evening settles into deep blues around him, as he walks towards the nearest bar, he does what he has not done in years: </p><p>He calls Sylvain Gautier. </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Felix is deep in thought and in his second whiskey when Sylvain throws his coat over the back of a chair and himself into another. </p><p>‘Give me one good reason why I should be here,’ he says flatly, ‘instead of back in at HQ, dealing with the worst PR crisis we’ve faced in years. <em> Thanks, </em> by the way.’</p><p>‘I quit,’ Felix says. </p><p>Sylvain blinks at him. ‘You did what now.’</p><p>‘I quit. An hour ago.’</p><p>Sylvain scrubs his hand through his hair, sighing. ‘Ah.’</p><p>‘Yeah.’</p><p>‘So Edelgard <em> was </em> behind all this.’</p><p>‘She set something into motion that she couldn’t stop,’ Felix says, in the interest of a fairness he only half believes in. </p><p>‘Your privacy, invaded; Dimitri’s political career, endangered; the results of the election, possibly hijacked by a last-minute scandal—’ Sylvain makes a helpless gesture. ‘Cornelia’s article. This. It doesn’t paint a pretty picture, is all I’m saying.’</p><p>‘The Blue Lions are hardly innocent of politicking,’ Felix says dryly. He lifts his glass to his lips, scarcely tasting the burn of it. ‘None of us are. We’re sunk in a political mire that’s sapping away at our morals and our principles, and whatever seemed unthinkable when we were kids is now a daily occurrence.’</p><p>‘Since when do you have morals? Aren’t you an independent contractor, free of outside influences? Don’t you spit in the face of loyalty and gallantry? Or,’ Sylvain’s mouth snarls into something complicated—‘is Dimitri’s dick just <em> so </em> big that you couldn’t help yourself?’</p><p>‘That’s none of your business,’ Felix snaps, feeling his face heat. </p><p>Sylvain lets out a bark of laughter. ‘Oh, it <em> is.</em> That’s rich. Only the two of you would sleep with a political rival because of some old unresolved history, disregarding all possible risk and danger in the process.’ He stretches out his arm along the back of his chair, pinning Felix with a dark, angry look. ‘Dimitri’s dumb enough to think you left us for his own good. I know better. You left because you’re a fucking coward.’</p><p>‘You always did know me, Sylvain,’ Felix says, and hurt flashes across his old friend’s face, there and gone in a burst of bitter laughter. </p><p>‘Yeah, well. Not well enough, apparently.’ Sylvain is silent for a moment, his eyes stuck on the table between them. The past few years have changed him as inevitably as they have changed Felix. The insouciant young man of yore is long gone: he is sadder, darker, more purposeful. ‘I don’t get it,’ he says at last, voice small. ‘You didn’t talk to me. I knew you were hurting, and you kept pushing me out.’</p><p>‘Beasts do that,’ Felix says, without looking up. ‘They attack when hurt.’</p><p>‘Tables have turned, huh? Dimitri’s all civilized now, smiling and kissing babies, and you … ’</p><p>‘How’s Ingrid,’ Felix asks, unwilling to let the conversation go in that direction for much longer.</p><p>Sylvain looks unimpressed, but nonetheless something about his eyes softens. ‘She’s pissed as hell.’</p><p>‘At you, or at me?’</p><p>‘At you, specifically. At me—generally.’ He grins. ‘Can’t escape that. Don’t even want to.’ He looks at Felix for a moment. ‘What are you gonna do now?’</p><p>Felix shrugs. </p><p>‘Has Dimitri—’</p><p>‘I broke up with him.’</p><p>Sylvain blinks. ‘When did you talk to him? I’m going to kill him.’ </p><p>‘Five days before the election, you’re going to kill your primary candidate?’</p><p>‘Shut up. You’re a mess. You’re a <em> fucking </em> mess, the both of you. And I’m not much better. <em> Sothis</em>. Why the fuck would you break up with him now? After he’s given up—everything—for this; for this; for you? He’s going to be a wreck.’</p><p>‘He isn’t.’ Felix is as sure of this as of anything in this world. ‘He doesn’t need me.’</p><p>Sylvain stares at him. ‘Saints, you’re worse than he is. <em> Respect Felix’s privacy. Felix deserves better</em>. <em> Felix Felix Felix</em>, blah blah blah<em>. </em> Ever thought of communication?’</p><p>‘Since when do you give relationship advice?’</p><p>‘Since two of my closest friends fucked each other up,’ Sylvain snaps, ‘and then <em> kept </em> fucking each other behind everybody’s back instead of talking their shit out, which would have at least avoided landing us in this awkward conversation. Or, hey,—since my best friend went off without a word of explanation to anyone, least of all me, and then turned up months later on our enemies’ doorstep. Did you care about us then, Felix? Did you miss us after you’d gone? Did you ever miss—’ His voice cracks, breaks down. </p><p>Felix swallows. Vulnerability looks wrong on Sylvain. Off. </p><p>‘I did,’ he admits. </p><p>Sylvain doesn’t look at him. ‘Then why leave?’</p><p>‘I couldn’t stay and watch him destroy himself,’ Felix says, to his empty glass, ‘while the lot of you fawned over him, coddled him. <em> Nothing I did ever brought him back</em>. I was there through the worst episodes, every night he spent screaming to nobody left alive, every morning he tried to drown himself in the shower, every meal he refused to eat. He looked at me and saw my dead brother. He didn’t care. All that mattered was calming his fucking ghosts. All that incoherent, screaming madness, all that pain, all for nothing. He was going to go from bad to worse, and my father enabled it. I couldn’t bear it. I was—in pain, too. It was going to fucking <em> kill </em> me, Sylvain, to watch him go. Call me a coward. I left. I couldn’t look any of you in the face, either, but back then not one of us could.’</p><p>Sylvain is silent. He rubs his nose. </p><p>‘I was making eggs, a year after,’ Felix says. ‘And then you lot were there, on the news, on my laptop, spouting some pretty bullshit about wanting to unite Fódlan through hard work and community. And he was there too, blond and smiling and gorgeous, with that dopey look in his eye, and real, somehow, alive and happy and <em> better</em>. It scared the fuck out of me. It was everything I’d ever wanted.’ </p><p>He shrugs. </p><p>‘The next day, Edelgard offered me a job. I said yes. I’d already lost him. And you. All of you.’</p><p>‘No,’ Sylvain says. ‘No. Felix.’ Gingerly, with the uncertainty of years spent apart, he offers—a smile. Nothing more. Nothing less.</p><p>‘Trust me,' he says: 'You never lost us. Not truly. Not really.’</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dimitri scarcely remembers the days leading up to the election. Too many factors are in play; too many interviews to give, people to meet, functions to attend and speeches to give. He shakes the hands of dedicated voters, signs countless autographs, and tries not to look too startled (or too smitten) when they put babies in his arms for photo ops. He smiles at cameras and waves cheerfully, ignoring journalists’ scathing comments. He receives calls from Edelgard and Claude, who express their best wishes for his social media survival and publicly condemn, in the direst terms, the disgraceful commentary and lack of discretion evidenced by the press, and their invasion of his private life. </p><p>‘We can’t be a nation that destroys itself from the inside,’ says Claude, severe and smiling. ‘Whatever our political differences, I am proud to call Dimitri my friend.’</p><p>‘He’s such a snake,’ says Annette, in admiring tones. </p><p>‘I think he means every word,’ Mercedes adds, her hand on her girlfriend’s waist. </p><p>The polls rise and fall, unwilling to give either one of the three candidates a conspicuous lead over the others. The night before the election, during the last debate of the campaign, Dimitri defends his positions with what he hopes is eloquent warmth, and listens, attentively, to Edelgard’s and Claude’s own propositions. He has the distinct sensation that they would be of more use as a single party than as separate factions. Watching Edelgard passionately champion her anti-crest system cause, he feels affected by a gentleness he has not felt in … a few years. </p><p>It has been difficult to be kind, or gentle, during the years of his illness. Even now, it has to be a choice he makes in consciousness. Getting through the day—the splendid, quotidian motions of getting up in the morning, dressing himself, feeding himself, slipping into his car beside Dedue and starting the motions of a political morning—involve effort and achievement both. </p><p>‘Dimitri Blaiddyd,’ the moderator says, at the end of Claude’s ardent closing speech, not a word of which Dimitri has heard. ‘Any last comments?’</p><p>‘Yes,’ he says softly. He rises, buttoning his jacket again, and offers the moderator a small smile. ‘There is something I have long wished to say.’</p><p>A very dramatic hush falls. </p><p>He curls his fingers around the mic, pondering his words. The audience is dark and almost invisible with the lowered house lights, but he can divine their presence, their attentive scrutiny. </p><p>‘Some years ago,’ he begins, slowly, ‘I disappeared from public scrutiny for half a decade. This chasm in my personal history has led to much speculation on the part of both my friends and my enemies. I have been heavily criticized in the media for my lack of openness. For not speaking out about these years. For not being honest. For not … caring. </p><p>‘As we have seen, the consequences of an invasion of privacy are dire. I am not the only one affected. If we normalize them, others will be the victims of similar aggressions. That must be condemned in no uncertain terms, and if my example will lead to greater, harsher criticism of such behaviour, I will take the fall and gladly so. </p><p>‘When I disappeared, it was because I had been struck down with an illness so debilitating I could no longer exist in public life. It was a cycle of pain and doubt and anguish from which there appeared to be no escape. I was, thankfully, not alone in that time. People cared for me, when I could not care for myself. It is a debt I owe.</p><p>‘For five years, I have suffered from that disease. I suffer from it to this day. Mental illness is not something one can shrug off after a given period of time, after one has suffered enough. It’s a progress. Sometimes there are breakthroughs. Improvements. Sometimes there are recessions, and losses. It is hard. There are treatments—medications—therapies. You cannot learn to live with it through mere willpower. It takes time. It takes effort. It takes luck, sometimes.</p><p>‘And yet here I stand before you today.</p><p>‘My past—my history—my mental health—do not define who I am as a politician, nor who I can yet become. They are factors in my thinking, certainly, and they influence my policies. But my identity remains the same as it was yesterday. My proposals and programs, my ideals, my wishes for the future of Fódlan have not changed. I wish, as we stand here today, Edelgard, Claude and I, that we could work together to create that unified continent we each of us dream about. </p><p>‘Tomorrow is an election. Tomorrow is a choice. But the day after, whoever gets voted in, is another chance. To change, to become better, to argue, to disagree, to build between ourselves what we cannot build alone. That is what matters. Not our private lives, not our little interpersonal quibbles, but what <em> we </em> can do for <em> you </em>. What we can each do—for one another.</p><p>‘Thank you all. I can’t wait to start.’</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>The lights change and shift over the dashboard. Dimitri leans his head against the window and watches the evening fall. </p><p>The results are but two hours away. Dimitri voted in grand pomp this morning, in front of a bevy of cameras and an adoring crowd. It is done now, and he feels restless. Tireless: as though he had not slept in weeks. His body is trembling fractionally, and he is ill at ease in the tailored charcoal suit Sylvain and Mercedes have painstakingly chosen for him. </p><p>The path will go on and on, taking him farther and farther from something that truly matters. From someone. </p><p>‘Dedue.’</p><p>‘Yes?’</p><p>‘I’d like to go somewhere.’</p><p>Dedue glances at him. He smoothly swerves into traffic. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea? They are waiting for you at the venue.’</p><p>It is irresponsible to bail on his own election party. In two hours he will have to deliver a concession speech or a victory speech, both of which he has memorized to the letter. Two choices stand before him. To act now, or forever hold his peace—</p><p>‘Then I will be late.’ He offers a smile. Ah, he is so tired. ‘I must do this, Dedue.’</p><p>‘... as you wish,’ Dedue murmurs.</p><p>At Felix’s door, Dimitri steps out of the car. The window of the small studio on the third floor is lit-up, a square of electric brightness in the blue dusk. He bends to say through the window: ‘Go on ahead and make my excuses. I will be with you presently.’</p><p>Ingrid and Sylvain will know where he has gone, when Dedue arrives alone. They will delay. There is still time, still time. </p><p>Tonight, the world changes. But not yet. Not now. </p><p>The lights flicker overhead in the hallway. He knocks. </p><p>Felix’s shadow is silhouetted through the smoked glass of the door. He hesitates, visibly, no doubt seeing Dimitri’s own shadow, then flips the lock and pulls the door open. </p><p>‘You shouldn’t be here.’</p><p>Dimitri leans against the doorjamb and looks at him. Felix’s hair is up in a half-bun, but the day has been long for him too: a few strands are clinging to his neck and throat. Cozy, in a pair of jeans and a sweater at least two sizes too big for him, in Blaiddyd colors. He, too, looks tired—the lines of his face are darker, deep, and his eyes seem wounded with purplish bruises. Under Dimitri’s gaze, he colors, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and tilts up his chin.</p><p>‘It’s election night. What the fuck are you doing here?’</p><p>‘I needed to speak to you,’ Dimitri says. </p><p>Felix’s eyes narrow. ‘Whatever.’ But he moves aside enough for Dimitri to step inside. It’s warm. The TV is on, a pleasant rumble in the background. Felix was making dinner in the tiny kitchen.</p><p>‘Coffee,’ he says, a propos of nothing. ‘You want some?’</p><p>‘Please,’ Dimitri says. He leans against the wall, hands in his too-well-tailored pockets, and then—just then—all the fight goes out of him: the boldness and the courage that have sustained him through the years leave him, and there is nothing, nothing left, that matters, but the fall of Felix’s hair over the pale, vulnerable arch of his nape, and the strength of his thighs under the sturdy black denim. Dimitri has had those thighs wrapped around his waist in bed, has pressed his lips to that soft skin and tasted salt. It feels unfathomable that he never should again. </p><p>Felix busies himself at the espresso machine. It’s a massive thing, a little incongruous in this small hole of a flat. It suits him. </p><p>‘Sylvain told me you quit.’</p><p>'Sylvain should keep his damn mouth shut.’ Felix’s voice is flat and toneless. He gives Dimitri a baleful glance over his shoulder. ‘I didn’t do it for you.’</p><p>‘Why, then?’</p><p>‘I’m sick of this war. Sick of fighting ghosts and calling it justice. Sothis knows I’ve hurt enough people. Sothis knows I’ve hurt enough. So I’m done.’</p><p>Dimitri hums. ‘Are you staying in Fhirdiad?’</p><p>‘For now. For the winter. Until I find something.’</p><p>Felix, like a traveling bird—staying in one place for a season, then departing—leaves talon marks in Dimitri’s heart. He bows his head.</p><p>‘I see.’ </p><p>‘Why are you here, boar?’ Felix’s hand stills on one of the metal handles, his head bowed. There is a horrible defeat in his voice, which Dimitri hates to hear. ‘You have a victory to earn. We ended things. Why did you have to show up here tonight?’</p><p>‘I need to tell you something,’ Dimitri says, softly. ‘Something I’ve been meaning to say.’</p><p>‘Right.’ If Dimitri didn’t know better, that would be a half-sob, caught in Felix’s throat. ‘Then say it and—go.’</p><p>It’s warm in the little kitchen. Felix’s back is turned to him. The noises of evening are full between them—the whirring of the espresso machine, the subdued voices from the television, the distant burr of traffic in the boulevard. The glowing red numbers on the microwave say 8:23, on and off, like the beating of a gigantic heart.</p><p>‘I love you.'</p><p>Felix’s back stiffens.</p><p>‘I’m in love with you,’ Dimitri clarifies. ‘I loved you these past years, spending one night with you every four months. I loved you when we were kids, and you would cry whenever I had to walk away from you. I loved you at Garreg Mach, when you hated to look at me. I loved you even in my madness, though I didn’t know that I was I, and you were you.’</p><p>Felix is silent. He doesn’t appear to be breathing. </p><p>‘That’s all,’ Dimitri says gently. ‘I wanted you to know.’ He pauses. ‘I’ll go.’</p><p>He puts his hand on the door knob. </p><p>‘Dimitri,’ Felix says. </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dimitri falls still. He turns his head. The red kitchen lights catch the working of his throat when he swallows, the sudden, inexpressible hope in his eye. </p><p>Felix’s fingers dig into the countertop so hard he fears they might leave marks. ‘Stay,’ he chokes out. ‘I—<em> stay</em>.’</p><p>Dimitri’s hand falls from the doorknob. His lips part. ‘Felix?’</p><p>‘Only you,’ Felix says, ‘would show up at my door at the eleventh hour with a fucking love confession. What the hell. Do you think that’s enough to get me back? After all that we—after I—what I have done to … I <em> broke up with you.</em>’</p><p>‘You had every right,’ Dimitri says. ‘You deserve better than a—than whoever I am.’</p><p>‘If you think I want anyone else,’ Felix says, flat, ‘you’re more of an idiot than I ever thought you were.’</p><p>Dimitri’s eye goes very wide and very blue. ‘... oh,’ he says. And then, very softly: ‘Come here.’</p><p>Felix goes. </p><p>In two long strides he crosses the kitchen and drags Dimitri down to his mouth. Dimitri makes a sound like a wound, and slips both hands in Felix’s hair and kisses him, his mouth wet and good and unfathomably hot, ravaging Felix’s mouth with a fervor that would be downright embarrassing in <em> any </em> other situation. As it is, it only serves to make Felix’s blood sizzle. He slips his fingers under Dimitri’s exquisitely tailored jacket, splaying them over Dimitri’s infernally narrow waist, and is rewarded by a moan so deep, so throaty, it gets into his godsdamn brain. </p><p>‘Say it again,’ Dimitri pants, against his mouth. ‘Felix, beloved. Say it again—’</p><p>‘Dimitri.’ The forgotten syllables are foreign and strange on Felix’s tongue. ‘Dimitri,’ he breathes, in the space between their lips, ‘Dimitri, Dimitri, ah, <em> Dimitri </em> …’</p><p>Dimitri groans and kisses him, ardent, working Felix’s hair slowly free of its bun and gripping tight at the base. His other hand travels down his back, bowing his spine, slipping—<em> goddess </em> —into his jeans. Their mouths slide together, tongues tangling. It’s so good, it’s so good, and Felix arches against him, feeling Dimitri’s immediate response, his shortened breath, his desire. Then Dimitri pulls on his hair, tilting his head back, baring his throat, and Felix cries out, heart battering, and Dimitri can surely feel it, chest pressed to chest, can surely <em> hear </em> it, so loud it in the spaces of their harsh breathing. </p><p>‘I love you,’ Dimitri says, nuzzling into his skin. His teeth scrape the tendon of Felix’s neck. ‘Ah. I love … ’</p><p>Felix says, ‘Get my jeans off of me, Dimitri.’</p><p>Dimitri’s eye darkens; both of his hands slip around Felix’s waist now, and effortlessly he hauls him up so that Felix has no choice but to sling both of his legs around his waist, balancing himself with his hands on Dimitri’s chest. Goddess, but he is <em> strong </em>, this man. This man.</p><p>Dimitri plops him down on the counter like a sack of flour, and then sinks down to his knees between Felix’s splayed legs. He works the button of Felix’s jeans and slowly, excruciatingly, begins to pull them down his hips, along (fuck) with his boxers. Felix’s erection, which he has been trying to ignore since Dimitri forced his way into his flat in the first place, springs upward.</p><p>‘Oh,’ Dimitri purrs. But he doesn’t lean forward, doesn’t take it in his mouth. Instead, he palms it gently. Felix hisses between his teeth. ‘That’s … flattering.’</p><p>‘Shut <em> up</em>.’</p><p>Dimitri hums, stroking him. Lifts himself up again to reach his lips, and Felix wraps his legs around his waist again, pulling him closer. That kiss is no less reckless, no less wanting; Felix’s hands are grasping on Dimitri’s shoulders, tearing at his impeccable jacket, dragging it off his shoulders. Dimitri helps: between them the jacket falls. Dimitri’s hair is mussed, now, from its slicked-back perfection, and his own dick presses insistently against Felix’s belly where they are chest to thigh pushed together.</p><p>‘Here?’ he gasps, as Felix’s fingers work at his belt and zipper. His eye rolls back slightly when Felix frees him from the confines of his trousers, wrapping his fingers firmly around the crown of his cock. ‘On the—’</p><p>‘Here,’ Felix says, breathless, stroking him. ‘Are you a boar or not? You should know how to fuck me by now.’</p><p>Dimitri laughs, and cradles his cheek in the palm of one hand, his hips twitching in Felix’s grasp. ‘Ah—oh Felix—yes. Yes. Anything, anything you want.’</p><p>‘I want you,’ Felix says, in his mouth. ‘I’ve always—you. You.’ </p><p>He says: ‘Dimitri.’</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>At some point, they make a lateral move to the bed. Exhausted, boneless, Felix slumps on top of him, face resting in Dimitri’s neck, fingers splayed over his left pectoral. Underneath them Dimitri’s heart pounds, slowing from a frantic, irregular beat into a smoother and stronger rhythm. Felix’s nails dig into his flesh, kneading Dimitri’s breast. His hair is fully undone now, and feels cool and silken where it spills over Dimitri’s heated skin. </p><p>Dimitri’s hand strokes up and down his back, underneath the too-big, royal blue sweater. </p><p>‘Is this mine?’ he asks: his voice is a pleasant burr after he moaned Felix’s name against his throat, after he cried out in his orgasm, burying himself deep inside Felix’s body. ‘I haven’t seen it since—’</p><p>‘I’ve had it for years,’ Felix says comfortably, rolling his shoulders. His naked thigh curls around Dimitri’s hip.</p><p>‘—our Academy days,’ Dimitri finishes, smothering a smile against Felix’s sweaty temple. ‘I lent it to you one day you were cold in our classroom. You didn’t want to take it. You never gave it back.’</p><p>‘Borrower’s rights,’ Felix grouses, but his mouth smiles against Dimitri’s. When they part, his thumb brushes against the scar that bisects Dimitri’s right eye shut—touching the marred skin with infinite tenderness.</p><p>‘You love me,’ Dimitri says, in tones of breathless wonderment. </p><p>‘Yeah,’ Felix says, glumly. ‘I do.’</p><p>Dimitri’s fingers spread possessively over the small of Felix’s back, where the skin is warm and damp with sweat. ‘Why wouldn’t you …'</p><p>‘I literally worked for the opposition,’ Felix says flatly. ‘Before—’ He exhales through his nose, lashes falling against his cheeks. ‘I was so—fucking—scared.’</p><p>‘Of me,’ Dimitri understands, heart-torn. </p><p>‘<em>For </em> you, Dimitri,’ Felix says, harsh. ‘You were dying. You were <em> dead </em>. The boy I adored was gone. Replaced by this … automaton of you … fake smiles and kind words, nothing real left in you at all. And instead those flashes of violence I didn’t recognize. That sick look in your eyes when you thought no one was watching.’</p><p>‘But you were,’ says Dimitri, softly.</p><p>‘I’ve never stopped watching you,’ Felix admits, voice cracking. The skin around his eyes is white and thin. </p><p>Dimitri’s hand lifts to brush his cheek. ‘I’m sorry I went away. I’m sorry I was lost away from you.’</p><p>‘I don’t want some ludicrously earnest apology,’ Felix grinds out, but he leans into Dimitri’s touch and he closes his eyes, breathing out. ‘I want you to know that you’re worthy of my love and start <em> acting like it.’ </em></p><p>Dimitri’s breath hitches; his heart feels overfull. He leans his forehead against Felix’s, nudging their noses together. </p><p>It’s almost ten by the time they manage to untangle from each other. Felix slings his legs over the side of the mattress and shoves them back into his jeans; and then says, over his shoulder: ‘They’ll be waiting for you.’</p><p>Dimitri slips his arms around his waist, hugging him loosely to his chest. He buries his face in Felix’s hair. ‘Come with me.’ </p><p>Felix is silent for a long moment. ‘I told you. I won’t work for you. That hasn’t changed, Dimitri.’</p><p>‘I know. I’m not asking you to be my advisor again.’</p><p>‘Then—’</p><p>‘Come as my partner,’ Dimitri says. ‘Be the man I love.’</p><p>The lights from outside change, shift, staining the walls of the darkened little bedroom. </p><p>‘You realize what they’ll say,’ Felix says. He turns in Dimitri’s grasp, enough to take Dimitri’s face in his hands. ‘About this.’</p><p>‘Felix.’ Smiling, Dimitri skims his lips across Felix’s palm. ‘After the vitriol that has been spewed at me these last months, do you imagine I care?’</p><p>‘You should,’ says Felix, exasperated, but his lips part eagerly to meet Dimitri’s, and his fingers curl around the base of Dimitri’s skull, loosely threading through his now ruined hair. </p><p>‘... alright. Yeah.’</p><p>‘I love you,’ Dimitri says, fairly shining with the force of it, and Felix says,</p><p>‘Seiros, you’re embarrassing,’</p><p>but that doesn’t stop the lines of his mouth from curling up, nor his eyes from softening, tellingly. </p><p>The alarm clock on the crate-cum-bedside table flips over to 10:00. </p><p>‘It’s time,’ Felix says. </p><p>Dimitri should be afraid, he knows. If he loses tonight, that is years of campaigning wasted: work to build back upon, legislation to push through, a political base he must win again. There is so much he wishes to do right by Fódlan, injustices to amend, prejudices to fight, privileges to dismantle. But he has done all that he could. The outcome is now quite literally out of his hands. Despite it all, out of all the things that have gone wrong this year, there is somehow Felix, here in his little flat, here in his mussed Blaiddyd sweater, his hair spilling down his shoulders, his eyes tired and content as they have not been in years. </p><p>Felix, whom he loves. Who, inexplicably, despite the years of damage and hurt between them, loves him. </p><p>Felix picks up the remote. </p><p>‘Ready?’</p><p>Dimitri does not look, though. He takes Felix’s other hand and presses a long kiss to his inner palm, nuzzling, lingering. He closes his eyes, and he nods.</p><p>The TV turns on. Light floods the little flat. The world changes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>a few notes:</p><p>- i didn't give dimitri an official diagnosis, because a) i felt uncomfortable doing so, and b) i am the furthest thing from a licensed professional. most of the information we have from in-game canon comes down to 'he goes feral and hears voices', which passes in a fantasy setting but is hardly proper terminology in the modern world. i have done my best to blend the two—to allude to his mental health issues in a way that felt true to canon and true to how they might be perceived today. in so doing, i have remained close to experiences that i personally underwent, in order to keep a measure of realism going. </p><p>- this fic would not have happened were it not for <a href="https://twitter.com/radialarch">radialarch</a>, who had to endure endless messages along the lines of HOW DO I RESOLVE THIS SCENE PLS HELP, and whose birthday, very coincidentally, is today. :D love u</p><p>- hahahahah how <i>does</i> one write hubert, exactly</p><p>- title is from john donne's <a href="https://poets.org/poem/anniversary">The Anniversary</a>, which is the MOST dmfx poem i have ever been privileged to come across.</p><p>- <a href="https://twitter.com/o_honeybees">tweet tweet</a>. come say hello!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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